


The Burning Heart of Molly Hooper

by PinkGlitterMasturbation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU as of "The Empty Hearse", Aftermath of Violence, But she works through it., Complicated D/s relationship, Dominatrix style, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual BDSM, F/F, F/M, Flashback sex, Flirting, Irene gives Molly some sexual healing, Molly gets a backbone, Molly is a complicated woman who isn't afraid to contradict herself, Molly is an emotional mess, Molly likes rough sex (who knew?), Molly stands up to Mycroft, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post Reichenbach, Switches between D/s, Top! and Bottom! Irene, more tags will be added as needed, top!Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 79,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkGlitterMasturbation/pseuds/PinkGlitterMasturbation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been gone for a year and Molly is feeling both horny and pathetic.  She's sick of unrequited love and men who use her.  Enter a certain dominatrix who has a secret about Sherlock and a penchant for lovely young submissive women.  Can Molly solve both her problems with the help of Irene?  Stay tuned and find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pity Party, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> Molly's introduction into the world of dirty text messages...that mobile is going to need to be dipped in bleach. Also, a shout-out to my favorite Monty Python sketch.

     Molly Hooper had spent twenty-nine years fulfilling her many roles to perfection. She was a loving, dutiful daughter, a supportive sister, a doting aunt, a fiercely loyal friend, a conscientious neighbor, an organized and methodical worker, and the best forensic pathologist in the country (not that humble Molly Hooper would ever admit that out loud, or anywhere but in the deepest recesses of her ego). Oh, and she was also anything that Sherlock Holmes asked of her, even if his request violated boundaries she would never dare cross on her own behalf.  
      For him, for that impossibly beautiful man who only occasionally threw her crumbs of kindness, she was a forger of official documents, an abuser of the authority her position gave her, and worst of all, she was a liar. Not just a liar, but a damned liar who watched John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson fall apart with grief and didn’t do anything to ease their pain.  
She had hidden him, patched him up, and been left by him. He was gone from her flat, with a slight limp, before his funereal. That ceremony had crushed her. Even though she knew Sherlock was alive, she also knew he was angry, hurting, and bent on revenge. What she didn’t know was if she would ever see him alive again. And that uncertainty wormed through her heart, making tiny holes over, around, and through the tissue until Molly wondered how it continued to beat at all.  
       On the year anniversary of Sherlock’s “death,” Molly added another role to her repertoire: a perfect arse over tits mess. Getting out of bed wasn’t an option. She called in sick to work, then promptly unplugged her house phone and put the mobile on silent. Next, she buried herself in her hypoallergenic, faux down comforter, breathing in the smell of lavender and chamomile laundry powder, along with traces of her own perfume, a soft citrus mix with notes of white flowers and ambergris that was really too expensive, but one of Molly’s few indulgences.  
      Smells were important to Molly. She could deal with the unpleasant mix of death and industrial grade cleaners at work, but in her home, on her body, Molly wanted the smell of life, of summer and sunshine. And what she wouldn’t give to smell Sherlock again. When he burst into her morgue, he always brought a smell of salt, and a winter seaside, but with a hint of something else, something dark and erotic simply because of its unique nature. It was just like Sherlock – strong, a bit bracing, and completely seductive. Nothing could duplicate his scent, not even the ocean itself (and she had tried long walks on cold beaches, practically inhaling the sea foam). She began to cry in earnest, tears splashing in large drops onto her pajamas and bedding.  
       The vibration of her mobile on the bedside table distracted her from unpleasant images of Sherlock’s body on her table, truly dead this time. She glanced at it, a bit annoyed that someone was calling her, interrupting what was shaping up to be the greatest pity party of all-time. Although her first instinct was to ignore the rattle of plastic on wood, the phone continued to shake, dancing closer to the edge. Molly dropped her phone at least once a day, so it probably wasn’t a good idea to let the bloody thing fall if she could prevent it.  
She snatched up the mobile, prepared to switch off the power completely, when she caught sight of the image she’d been sent. Even though she was alone, Molly blushed from her brown tresses to her pale pink toenail polish. On her screen was a woman’s body, from the neck down, naked as those in her morgue, but decidedly alive.  
       The body was as perfect as Molly remembered it. And she _had_ memorized _that body_ , had taken in every curve and angle after Sherlock had glanced at it for three seconds (Molly had counted) and identified The Woman by not-her-face. Armed with a name, Molly had researched The Woman, and had her fears confirmed. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t want an ordinary woman, a good girl, even if she were a brilliant pathologist. No, The Woman for Sherlock would be posh, with a cruel smile, chin and cheekbones to match his own, and curves in all the right places.  
     Currently, that porcelain skin, with its opalescent glow, was posed in a mockery of modesty. The Woman’s right arm fell across her chest, obscuring her left breast, while her elegant, thin fingertips pinched at her left nipple. Her left arm followed the line of her body, her hand with its blood red nails splayed over the junction of her thighs in what would have been a protective gesture for anyone else, but for The Woman was both an invitation and a warning.

     _Hello, Little Miss Molly. I know it’s a tough day. Fancy having dinner?_

     Molly had no earthly idea of how to respond. Thank God one couldn’t stammer via text. She should hate this woman who somehow had the power to beguile Sherlock, to fool everyone into thinking she was dead…just like she should hate Sherlock for how he used her to do the exact same thing. But it just wasn’t in Molly’s nature to hate; the only person she had ever truly hated was dead, properly dead. Molly had performed his autopsy (not that an autopsy was definitive with this lot, given the precedent set by The Woman and reinforced by Sherlock). Still, she felt sure Sherlock would want her to find out what, if anything, The Woman knew.

      _Don’t be sad, little mousy. Come out and play._

     The mousy comment stung just enough to prompt Molly to reply.

     _Why would a mouse play with a whorish cat?_ Ok, maybe she did hate this woman.

      _Ooh, has mousy grown claws?_

      A flush of anger flooded Molly’s cheeks. Everyone thought she was so meek, so much of a nobody. Except Sherlock, who told her that she counted, told her she had always counted, that he trusted her, that he needed her – then vanished. Vanished and left her wondering if the whole thing had been a dream.

      _No, I’ve simply adapted to dealing with sociopaths._ God, she wished that were true.

      _Mmmm. I could have fun with you, claws and all. Have dinner with me._

      _Why?_ Molly was frustrated, but also curious.

      _Because you’ll have fun. Are you afraid of a little fun, Miss Molly?_

      Molly’s lip quivered. Fun? What was that? Her fingers hovered over the keys, considering her answer. Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Seriously? Was she to have no peace on the only day in a year that she had asked for it?  
      The knocking continued, low but insistent, as she threw on a pair of sweat pants and a grey button down shirt – the one she had bought for Sherlock to wear when he’d stayed for those two nights, barely eating or sleeping, lost in his mind palace for hours on end. He had thanked her for the shirt in a perfunctory manner, and had changed into it on the second day. When she’d come home on the third day, it had been folded on the edge of her bed, still smelling of him. There was none of his scent left now, but she wore the shirt around the house on her days off.  
       She had prepared herself before opening the door, but pictures and a body double had not done Ms. Irene Adler justice. Sweeping past Molly was not a woman. She was The Woman. It wasn’t that Irene was gorgeous. She was, but there was more. There were the beautiful clothes, sapphire leather gloves, a silver cloak with a fur collar dyed the same sapphire, a silver and black sheath dress that looked modest until she took off the cloak and turned, revealing a back that was bare almost to her bottom. Her stockings were a nearly sheer black, with seams running down the back. Molly had no doubt that there was a garter belt under the dress, but she wasn’t so sure about panties. On top of all this (or the lack of this), she exuded sexual energy like a teapot let out steam.  
       Molly stood her ground. If she could stand up to Sherlock, she could handle The Woman. She put on her most serious work face, trying to forget her plain, shabby clothes, messy hair, and eyes reddened from recent tears.  
       “Thank you, Ms. Adler, for saving me the trouble of texting. I don’t know why you are suddenly interested in me, but—”  
       “There’s a girl, addressing me properly.” Her hand, now free of the sapphire glove, and sporting silver nail polish with just a trace of sparkle, reached out and quickly stroked Molly’s face from her temple, over her cheekbone, down to the corner of her mouth, leaving a trail of tiny explosions. “I’ll know what you like soon enough.”  
        I will not stammer, Molly repeated the mantra in her head three times before opening her lips. “You don’t know anything about me, and I must ask you to—”  
        “Oh, on the contrary, Dr. Hooper.” Irene’s voice was suddenly serious, but no less sexy. “I know that you are in love with Sherlock Holmes.”  
        “All of bloody England knows that,” Molly muttered defiantly, flushing.  
        “Sweet thing, that’s not the interesting part,” Irene continued, somehow managing to both draw out her words and enunciate them perfectly. “Everyone who meets the Great Detective falls a little in love with him, the kind of love early humans must have had for fire – the worship of its brightness, its intensity.”  
         She settled herself in the seat by the window, a green leather wingchair that had been Molly’s father’s, the one she curled up in to read, or to just inhale the smell of scotch and cigars that clung to it, the smell of her father. “No, the interesting thing is that Sherlock Holmes loves you back.”  
         Molly could take a lot. Obviously. She was, after all, in love with Sherlock. However, she could not abide being mocked. Not about the affection she held so tenderly, protected at such a dear price, with no hope of its return.  
        “Get out.” Molly’s tone was soft, but fierce.  
         The Woman only smiled, in a fashion slightly less predatory than normal. “I’m not saying our dear little boffin is ready to redecorate your walls with yellow spray paint and bullet holes,” she purred. “I am saying that he cares for you, more deeply than anyone else besides John Watson, but then no one will ever surpass his love for that man. Second to John Watson is a very lofty position.”  
         Molly didn’t speak. She merely pointed to the door.  
         “Come now, Miss Molly, don’t be tedious.” The Woman sighed, managing an exasperated tone that reminded Molly so much of Sherlock she shivered. “I’ve come to help you. I would take Sherlock for myself, but we are sadly….incompatible. He’ll never forgive me for Moriarty.”  
         “As well he shouldn’t!” Molly snapped. Moriarty was a tender subject.  
         “Actually, Sherlock should be kissing my McQueen boots,” Ms. Adler purred. “I’m the one who made it possible for him to love a woman in the first place, and I’m going to have you practically gift-wrapped for him by the time he gets back.”  
         Standing stock still, Molly was finally hit by the true problem with The Woman’s words – their tense.  
         “Yes, the penny has dropped, hasn’t it?” She tapped those silver nails on the green leather. “I saw our dear boy a month ago in France. He looked dreadful, but determined.” She lifted her nails, casually inspecting them.  
         There was a rushing in Molly’s ears. The most important thing was that Sherlock was alive. She allowed herself a moment to savor this information before turning to The Woman. Then she considered how dangerous The Woman could be with this knowledge.  
         “I’m not sure if you will leave this apartment alive,” Molly walked toward her with a deadly stare. She would do what it took to keep Sherlock alive, to bring him home.  
         Those pale blue eyes, so near in color to Sherlock’s, widened in a brief flare of fear that quickly blossomed into desire. “Why, Molly Hooper, I think I just fell in love.” She stood, closing the gap between them with a fluid grace that couldn’t be quite human. “Don’t worry. I haven’t said a word to a soul, and I won’t.”  
         “Why would I ever trust you?” The scorn in her voice was laced with a hint of jealousy that Molly hadn’t meant to let creep in.  
         “Think, darling. Sherlock and I both agree it’s the new sexy.” The Woman’s red lips were inches from Molly’s bare ones. “I’ve already told you.”  
          Molly didn’t want to play this game, but she couldn’t stop. The Woman’s connection to Sherlock, along with the ability to talk to someone who knew he was alive, overwhelmed her better judgment. She also smelled amazing – a heady combination of paradoxical scents, spicy and sweet, musky, yet delicate. It was the scent of candied lemon peels, honey, cloves, and sex. Focus, Molly, she chided herself.  
         “I seriously doubt that your flirting with Sherlock gave him the ability to love,” Molly scoffed. “I doubt Sherlock can love anyone, woman or man, in that way.” It hurt to say those words out loud, but Molly wasn’t going to let The Woman think she was fooled.  
         “Oh, no,” The Woman protested, her breath warm on Molly’s face, smelling of mint tea, both hot and cold. “That’s where he fools everyone the most. Sherlock Holmes has a romantic heart – he simply can’t abide the weakness it creates, so he keeps it in a lead-lined box of intellect, chained down with logic.”  
Molly would have loved to believe that, but she just couldn’t risk any more pain. She had accepted long ago that her love would always be unrequited.  
          Her doubt must have shown, because The Woman continued. “That dear man would do almost anything to convince the world he has no heart, but I knew otherwise, and I saved it. I saved him. I made him better.”  
         “You’re absolutely barmy.” Molly was wondering if The Woman had suffered some traumatic brain injury. “I don’t know everything, but I know from John that Sherlock destroyed you. How does that translate into you saving him?”  
         An expression of genuine pain flew across The Woman’s face, quickly replaced by that playful smile. “Yes, I was destroyed. I had thought to be like Sherlock, to hide my true feelings, that I was desperately infatuated with him, that I wanted him more than I wanted to breathe. And that clever boy found me out, but not without a cost.”  
         “You think you hurt him?” Molly asked, disbelieving.  
         “I know I did. I saw his eyes, the steely resolve as he punched in that pass code.” She was far away, lost in the memory. “He wasn’t logical at that moment. He was all hurtful revenge and cold rage. And he was vowing never to let himself feel that weak again.”  
         Sherlock had so few feelings. The thought of The Woman hurting what little had made her angrier than she could handle. Molly slapped The Woman, hard. Her palm stung, but she didn’t wince or cradle the hand.  
         The Woman slowly revolved her head back, Molly’s small handprint blossoming over her left cheek. Far from angry, she looked positively gleeful. “Oh, how you keep surprising me, Miss Molly,” she purred, running a silver nail down the hollow of Molly’s throat.  
         With a swallow, Molly stepped back. Why did this hateful woman’s touch arouse her? She must seriously need a shag. That was all it was – there had been no one since….Moriarty. But she wouldn’t think about that.  
         The Woman gave her a knowing smile that made Molly want to scream. “Where was I? Oh, yes, how I saved Sherlock’s heart.” She grinned. “Simple. I let him save me. You know, play the role of the knight in shining armor. I set up his rescue of me, which kept that little spark alive.”  
         Molly gave The Woman a look of annoyance. She was very smart (she was a top of her class, a doctor, a published pathologist), but she couldn’t follow what she didn’t know. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”  
          The Woman sighed and spent the next ten minutes relating the side of the story Molly had never heard. “Sherlock wants to believe he is complicated, but he is really very simple. He craves attention, excitement, and love. He will never admit this last bit, but why else does he collect admirers – John Watson, his landlady, D.I. Lestrade, you, me?”  
         “He doesn’t collect us,” Molly protested, though there was something about the wording that fit.  
         The Woman ignored her. “The trick is getting that guard down. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I’m as addicted to danger as he is; I was just playing the game. But he took it personally. I was worried he would shut off that part of himself forever. So, I went to Karachi and left him a trail to follow.” She paused, thoughtful. “I was in true danger, and I didn’t know for certain if he would come through, but I do love the thrill of a near-death experience, and my gamble paid off in the end.”  
         “Why would you do that?” Molly was even more confused.  
         The Woman looked deep into her eyes. “Wouldn’t you risk your life to see the glow of love in Sherlock Holmes’ eyes?”  
         Molly’s broken heart gave a painful thud at that thought. “But you said you aren’t compatible”  
         “We’re not,” The Woman said shortly. “I do have a conscience, though, and I couldn’t have the blood of Sherlock’s heart on my hands.” She glanced at Molly with bright eyes. “That’s why I’ve come to you. Sherlock can’t love unless he feels safe. He trusts you.”  
         _I’ve always trusted you_. Sherlock’s words sounded in Molly’s head. “That doesn’t mean he loves me.”  
        “Yes, it does,” The Woman answered quickly. “Sherlock gives his trust as rarely as his heart.”  
        “You’re so bloody full of yourself! Thinking you know him!” Molly yelled, her annoyance reaching its limit. None of this could be true.  
         The Woman shrugged. “Fine, don’t believe me. Go back to bed and wallow in your self-pity.” She gestured to Molly’s bedroom door through which the rumpled bed could be seen. “Or,” she gave Molly that saucy grin, “come with me and have fun.”  
         Surely having anything to do with this woman was a bad idea, Molly thought. But in the short time since Ms. Adler had contacted her, Molly had to admit that she felt more alive than she had since Sherlock had left. And wouldn’t it be better to keep an eye on The Woman? And wouldn’t it be more fun, the little devilish voice in her head taunted.  
        “What did you have in mind?” Molly asked, her tone steady even though the angelic voice in her head was screaming, What are you doing, Molly Elizabeth Hooper?

                                                                                                oOo0oOo – One month later – oOo0oOo

     “Oh my God,” Molly moaned, carried away on yet another wave of bliss.  
     “Feels wonderful, doesn’t it?” Irene murmured.  
     “God, yes,” Molly gasped. “I wish I could do this every day.”  
     “Some people do,” Irene breathed. “Unfortunately, you insist upon working an obscene amount of hours.”  
      Molly didn’t answer the taunt. Instead, she luxuriated in the firm fingers of the masseuse who was performing magic on the knots under her shoulder blades. She opened her eyes a crack and spied Irene on the table next to her, looking equally pleased with her treatment.  
       It was still hard for Molly to believe that she was in the same room with Irene Adler, let alone having fun. Because there was no doubt that The Woman knew how to have fun. That first day Irene had taken Molly to dinner, at a little Italian restaurant with excellent wine. The conversation had been strained until Molly’s second glass, when she had stopped thinking and just began peppering Irene with all the questions she was dying to ask.  
       Irene was incredibly open about her “work” and even her feelings for Sherlock. She didn’t seem bitter about how things had turned out, only wistful perhaps. The only topic they didn’t discuss was Moriarty. She also seemed more mellow than Molly would have expected, which warned Molly to keep on her guard. Fun with Irene was one thing. Trusting her was another.  
       After that, The Woman had become Irene, for the most part. They had gone out nearly every day Molly had off from work. Every time was a new adventure – shopping, wine tastings, facials, even an interpretive dance performance that Irene practically turned into a sex show with the naughty narration she whispered in Molly’s ear.  
When Molly had tried to beg off today, saying that she was too tired from the sixteen-hour shift she’d worked the previous day, Irene had only grabbed her hand, and told her that she knew exactly what Molly needed.  
       Mmmm. And she had known, Molly admitted. When the cab had pulled up to a posh looking glass and stone building, Molly was a bit intimidated. She had been raised in a working class neighborhood, and although she made more than her parents had combined, Molly still felt uncomfortable spending money on herself – it seemed so wasteful.  
That feeling had lingered as she sipped some type of slightly bitter “cleansing” tea beside an unusually quiet Irene.  
      “Let’s go to the sauna,” Irene broke the silence. “Our masseurs won’t be ready for an hour.”  
       Molly had showered self-consciously, grateful for the private stalls and the large, fluffy white towels. She had kept the towel wrapped tightly around her while they entered the sauna, but Irene had sauntered in naked without a care, and after ten minutes, Molly had dropped her towel in a desperate attempt to prevent her imminent death by heat.  
In the steamy roomy, she could feel her heart beating, a throbbing at every pulse point. As she glanced around the room, trying to avoid staring at Irene’s breasts, or the rivulets of sweat that ran between them, down the curve of her stomach to….  
       “Like what you see, Miss Molly?” Irene teased.  
       Molly hadn’t been sure it was possible to blush in a sauna, but it was. “I, uh,”  
       Irene gave a lazy smile, swinging her crossed leg. “Nothing to be ashamed of dear. People are much more fluid than society or even science would have us believe. For even the most extreme on the Kinsey scale, there are exceptions. Take John Watson for example,” she purred. “Can you honestly tell me that he wouldn’t drop to his knees if Sherlock told him to?”  
      Molly closed her eyes at that wicked scenario. If that ever happened, she would want to be there to watch. But she wasn’t about to say that to Irene. The Woman could unravel sexual thoughts and desires like Sherlock could a crime scene.  
      “Oh, mousy likes that,” Irene was closer to her now, breathing in her ear. “What if I told you some of the lovely fantasies I’ve had about those two….or you tell me the ones you’ve had? We could compare notes.”  
       Somewhere in the last month, the word “mousy” had gained a sexual charge, and Molly couldn’t defuse it. The nickname still bothered her, but now in a completely different way.  
       “How much longer until the massage?” She choked out, keeping her eyes closed. She seriously needed a shag. A filthy, meaningless, breathtakingly fantastic shag. Unfortunately, Molly was not one for one-night stands. The last good sex she’d had was…she wasn’t going to think about him.  
        Irene was laughing. “Fantasies are lovely, aren’t they?” Her finger was running up Molly’s arm. How could The Woman make gooseflesh in a sauna? Molly was becoming quickly convinced she had supernatural sex powers.  
        Molly could feel Irene moving, putting one hand on either side of her, leaning in. She wanted to open her eyes, but she was afraid to let Irene see her confusion, her desire. Having Irene think she feared her was acceptable. Letting Irene know that she wanted to push her down on the floor and leave her as hot and wet as the steamy air around them was not.  
       “Only problem is,” Irene’s lips paused to kiss Molly’s eyelids, “your body is in the real world, needing a real release.”  
        Slowly, Molly opened her eyes, but Irene had already pulled back, and was handing Molly a towel. “Time for our massage.”

        After the massage, Molly dressed quickly, eager to put layers of fabric between her body and Irene’s gaze. “So, that was lovely, but I’m not up to doing much more. I think I just need to curl up with a book and a cuppa and stay in.”  
       For once, Irene didn’t argue with her. “Fine. You pick the take-out, and I’ll grab a few shows to watch.” She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Molly’s cheek. “We’ll be positively domestic.”  
       She was gone before Molly could find a tactful way to say that she didn’t want Irene’s company for the night. Not that Irene would have listened, Molly thought. The Woman was a world unto herself, and her heavy sexual energy had pulled Molly into an orbit she had no hope of escaping – at least not by any ordinary measures.  
Molly left the spa and walked towards home rather than catch a taxi. It wasn’t a far distance, and the stroll took her past one of her favorite curry places. She stopped in and ordered a few small dishes of different heat intensities, along with some dal. Gathering the plastic bags and continuing home, Molly had the unpleasant experience of listening to her mind war with itself.  
       _Molly Hooper, what would your real friends say? Greg, John, Mrs. Hudson?_ There was a menacing pause. _What would Sherlock say?_  
      _Shut up!_ Came the quick reply. _I am not accountable to any of them for my personal life._  
      _Oh, ho! This is your personal life? Irene Adler? How personal do you plan to get with her, you desperate slag? You know she doesn’t want you, not really. She wants something from you, not the real you. No one wants the real you, especially not Sherlock. Why would you listen to The Woman? You know she’s a born liar. You are almost as pathetic around her as you are around HIM_.  
      The internal conversation rapidly devolved into a mental lashing, and Molly felt like a prisoner beaten within an inch of her life by the time she unlocked her door. Even though she had no keys, Irene was already settled in Molly’s favorite corner of the sofa, snuggled under Molly’s favorite throw, the one her grandmother had made for her as a graduation present, a beautiful, colorful patchwork piece that looked like a rag against Irene’s high-necked topaz cashmere sweater and black pearls. That was the situation in a nutshell – Molly would never be good enough, classy enough, exotic enough, for someone like Irene (and by extension, someone like Sherlock). This thought sent Molly falling over an emotional waterfall.  
      “Irene, I don’t know what your end game is, but I can’t do this.” Molly couldn’t keep the depression out of her voice.  
      “Do what?” Irene was all innocence – as if that were possible.  
     “Whatever you are doing,” Molly swallowed and continued. “I know I’m just a tool. That’s all I am to everyone. Moriarty used me to get to Sherlock, Sherlock used me to escape Moriarty and save John, and I honestly have no idea what your true agenda is, but I’m done being a pawn. I would like you to leave me alone.”  
      Irene rose, lifting the quilt and folding it neatly over the side of the couch. She was dressed impeccably, but the style was subdued. Her hair was in a simple braid, and her makeup was done in more natural shades than Molly had ever seen on her.  
      She placed a gentle hand (nails the color of tiger’s eye stones) on Molly’s cheek. Her pale blue eyes were free of their usual guarded expression as she stroked her index finger over Molly’s jawline.  
      “You may be more damaged than our boy Sherlock.” Her tone was tender, as if speaking to a scared child. “Who ever told you that you were nothing Molly Hooper? And why on earth did you believe them?"  
      The question struck Molly to her core. It was the question she often asked herself. Intellectually, she knew that she was very smart and talented, had a slim, attractive shape (even if Sherlock said her breasts were too small), pretty facial features (ditto for her mouth), and beautiful hair. Emotionally, she doubted herself daily, and worried that she would never be able to shake this stupid, unrequited love for Sherlock Holmes, that she would grow old without ever finding someone who would love her back.  
       It was only when Irene’s fingers moved to wipe her tears that Molly realized she was crying. “No one has to tell me,” Molly whispered. “I tell myself everyday.”  
       “Oh, mousy,” Irene wrapped her arms around the younger woman and pulled her close, kissing the top of her hair. “You are everything that is good about this world. People like me, like Sherlock, like Moriarty, we exist for ourselves. You exist to spread kindness and love. You deserve all the love the world has to hold.”  
       Molly was sobbing now, weeping harder than she had at her father’s funeral, into the soft warmth of Irene’s sweater, smelling now more of honey and lemons than sex. It was strangely comforting, reminding her of sweet, hot tea. She knew trusting Irene was a bad idea, but she couldn’t help herself. Irene was the only person who seemed to understand her (Sherlock observed her, deduced her, but he never understood her). Molly craved the connection, the human touch she had forgone for so long as a punishment to herself over Moriarty. Was it so awful to take what affection she could?  
       Irene held her tightly, making no sign of loosening the embrace, but she did manage to move them to the sofa, bringing Molly down on the cushions beside her. Other than a low, cooing sound that Irene made, the room was quiet. Molly gave into her tears, and when those were spent, she gave into her exhaustion and slept.

 

                                                                                                                        oOo0oOo

      Molly woke slowly, gradually taking in her surroundings. She was on her couch, alone. Her grandmother’s quilt was spread over her, and sun was streaming through the windows. There was a folded piece of paper on the coffee table, beside her mobile. The note was short: _Chin up, my little mousy. I’ll see you again very soon_.  
      A warm flush spread through her cheeks as Molly put the note back down and picked up her mobile. There were no messages, and she had just enough time to get showered, pick up a coffee and a muffin at the corner store, and make it into work on time.  
      As she rushed through her morning routine, Molly tried to keep her thoughts from wandering back to Irene. Good God, did the woman drug people with pheromones? Molly had kissed a girl or two in uni, but she had never done more than some light petting. Of course, she hadn’t done much with boys, either. Her sex life had been rather disappointing until Moriarty.  
     She had believed Sherlock so blindly, when he had declared Jim gay. Which was ridiculous, honestly, because Jim had coaxed sex out of Molly every chance he could, and if he was exclusively gay, then he was the best actor on the planet. She didn’t allow herself to think about him much, because it made her feel bad and foolish, but the man had given her more orgasms than her other three partners put together.  
     The water streaming down her flesh took Molly back to the first time Jim from I.T. had come to her apartment. They’d had coffee in the hospital café a few times, and Jim had been the opposite of coy.  
     “When are you going to invite me back to your place for a night cap, Molls?”  
     “Ah, I, uh,” Molly had stammered, taken back by his directness. She took a breath and recovered. “How about tonight? I get off around eight.”  
      Jim had grinned, a slow toothy smile that had sent a shiver of desire through her.  
     When she’d walked out of the morgue entrance, Jim had been waiting, with a taxi at the curb. Molly had been impressed, and when he had nonchalantly taken her hand and began rubbing the flesh between her thumb and forefinger, Molly had felt her resolve to only have a snog and cuddle with him slip away.  
     “So, what needs an upgrade?” Jim asked in her apartment.  
    “Excuse me?” Molly was already feeling the scotch and soda.  
    He gave that lazy smile again, and gestured to her computer desk. “I meant your laptop. I am from I.T. – I could trick you out.”  
    Molly blushed at the words. She wasn’t familiar with the phrase, but she was sure there was innuendo in it. “Do you mean”  
    “Sex?” Jim was beside her, taking her drink and setting it on the coffee table, his eyes black as coal. “Yes, I do.”  
     “Ok.” Molly was grateful the word came out in a breathy rush, not a squeak.  
     Jim was not exactly gentle, but he wasn’t rough enough to scare her. Energetic was probably the right word. With both hands now on her face, holding her a willing captive, he had kissed her deeply, eagerly, and Molly had responded in kind.  
     A moan came from Molly that shocked her. She wasn’t usually a loud lover.  
     “Mmmm, what a sound card you have, Molls,” Jim purred, his mouth now trailing down her neck. She gasped as he yanked her blouse sideways, exposing her shoulder, and latching his lips to her flesh. There was no doubt that would leave a mark, and Molly found to her surprise that this excited her.  
     It had only taken a few more minutes before they were in her bed, rolling around the sheets like teenagers. The lights were on, another new thing for Molly, who preferred the protection of a candlelit room for lovemaking. But she recognized that this was something different. She liked Jim. He was smart and funny, but they were most definitely not making love. They were shagging, and she was 100% ok with that.  
      Jim’s exuberance was contagious, and Molly was a more active partner than she’d ever been. “C’mon Molls, show me what you want,” he whispered as he deftly undid her bra with two fingers behind her back.  
      Her bra fell helplessly into his hands. He threw it across the room in impatience and his hands (hotter than normal, like he was running a slight fever) cupped her breasts, his thumbs running back and forth over the nipples with a firm force that caused her nipples to explode with delight.  
      Molly giggled.  
      Jim arched a dark eyebrow.  
     “Monty Python – my”  
     “Nipples explode with delight,” he finished, giving her that wolfish smile again. He twisted a bit harder, enough to make her cry out, but not pull away. “I’ve always loved that skit – perfectly manipulated miscommunication for nefarious means.”  
     Molly was too distracted to answer. She would not have guessed that she would respond so well to rough handling. Her other lovers had been almost as timid as she was.  
     “Let’s see what else we can make explode,” Jim murmured, his voice deeper than Molly had ever heard, as his hands traced her rib cage, fingers pushing into the soft space between each bone, leaving a trail for his lips and teeth to follow.  
      He didn’t go for the obvious place. Instead, her new, and now easily favorite, lover pushed her left leg up and fastened his mouth on the place where her arse met her thigh. She squirmed and sighed, amazed that a spot so unnoticed can elicit such sensation. Jim’s mouth was like a damn remora, and she was sure he was making a knotty bruise, but she didn’t care, because his fingers were typing out a rhythm against her clitoris that was a magic code, hacking straight into the pleasure center of her brain. She came as soon as he thrust two of those fingers into her, and thought it would be hours before she fell off this cloud.  
     Apparently Jim was no respecter of a girl’s need to zone out after an earth-shattering orgasm. Instead, he shucked his pants, rolled on a condom, and immediately began to pull her back and forth, up and down, into positions she’d never considered, thrusting a surprisingly thick cock into her fast and hard enough to let her know she’d be sore tomorrow. He coaxed two more orgasms out of her before he finally let go, and Molly wondered how she had lived before sex like this.

    There was water running down her face. Was she crying again? No, Molly realized as she came out of the vivid memory that she was still in the shower. The same shower in which Jim had given her two additional orgasms when they had stumbled to the bathroom to wash off the morning after their first night together.  
    Molly grabbed her oatmeal scrub and rubbed her face with vicious force. She wasn’t going to think about him. She wasn’t going to think about how he had fooled her or used her, or the fact that she had enjoyed the touch of a murderous psychopath, a man that the phrase “evil incarnate” was made for. She tore her fingers through her curls, not caring that tangles pulled at her scalp as she shampooed her hair. Irene had willingly done business with Moriarty, knowing what he was. She was crazy have anything to do with The Woman. Molly should have thrown her out on her perfectly formed, posh arse a month ago. Was she so desperate for any affection that she would risk a repeat of what had happened with Moriarty?  
    Ten minutes after she had toweled off, Molly was locking her front door and striding down the steps with determination. She had thrown Irene’s card in the trash and made a vow to herself that she would ignore all future contact with The Woman.  
    Of course, as Molly made this promise to herself, she had no idea she’d be breaking it in less than twenty-four hours.


	2. Molly plays doctor and gets cheesed off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene comes back, but Molly doesn't turn her away this time. Appearances by John, Greg, and Anthea. Flashback appearance by Sherlock. Warnings for the aftermath of violence towards a woman (not too graphic, but warning nonetheless). Not beta read.

oOo0oOo Chapter 2 oOo0oOo

       Apparently yesterday had been the day to die under suspicious circumstances, because when Molly got in, she had three autopsies on her list. Other than the fact that three people had perhaps died needlessly, Molly wasn’t bothered by the workload. Work was the one area where Molly was confident. She knew she was an excellent pathologist, and she found a sort of calm when performing an autopsy. To enter a space where she didn’t doubt herself, where she could feel the peace of certainty, was Molly’s secret addiction.  
      Molly was busy with Mr. Baldacci (a supposed slip in the tub that looked more like a bash on the back of the head, then a drowning) when the doors swung open to reveal John Watson. He looked tired and sad beneath a falsely bright smile. It broke her heart to see him trying so hard to be okay.  
     She immediately put down her scalpel, lifted off her protective face shield, and stripped off her gloves. He embraced her tightly for several seconds, Molly welcoming the smell of his leathery aftershave and cucumber soap. Neither of them spoke. They had spent a lot of time in silence in the past year. It was comforting to be together, but there really wasn’t much to say. They didn’t need words, just the company of another person who understood what it meant to lose someone as extraordinary as Sherlock Holmes.  
     “What brings you down to St. Bart’s?” Molly asked as John finally pulled away.  
      He ran a hand through his short ash blonde waves. “Oh, I spoke to some residents here about dealing with returning soldiers, their issues and such. We see a lot of abuse problems.”  
     “So you’re still working in Accidents and Emergencies?” She spoke in a neutral tone, but she had been a tad worried about the fact that John hadn’t stayed at any one hospital or medical practice for more than two months.  
     John clearly picked up on Molly’s concern because he gave her a reassuring wink, reminding her of the old John Watson. “Yes, Dr. Hooper, I am settling down.” He laughed. “Well, as much as one can settle down in Causalities. I seem to have a knack for calm under pressure, and the frantic pace keeps me from thinking too much.”  
     Molly didn’t respond. Thinking too much was a problem she shared.  
     John cleared his throat and continued. “There is something else – someone else – who is helping me. I’ve a new girlfriend, Mary. Lestrade is meeting us for drinks tonight, and I was hoping you could come as well.”  
     His cheeks were flushing, Molly noticed. That was a good sign. Maybe this Mary would help pull him out of the depression Sherlock’s “death” had thrown him into. Whenever she was invited anywhere by John, Greg, or Mrs. Hudson, Molly always said yes. It hurt like hell to be around them, but she considered it part of her penance for the lies she had told.  
    “Yeah, that sounds lovely. Our usual at The Bishop’s Finger, then?”  
     “Great. See you around eight.” John leaned in and kissed her brow affectionately, like the older brother she had never had, but always wanted.  
     Molly nodded, both pleased to have John’s friendship and appalled at how she was betraying it. She watched him leave, his limp less pronounced than it had been when he had entered. With a sigh, she picked up a fresh set of gloves and turned back to the table.

     By seven, Molly declared herself done. She had pushed through the autopsies and written short preliminary reports. There was certainly still work to be done, but it could wait until tomorrow. If she rushed, she could make it home, take a quick shower, and make it back to the pub. Although she could have showered in the locker room, she cared too much about John to show to meet his new girlfriend in the rumpled clothes she’d worn into work this morning. There was a tea stain down the front, for god’s sake.  
     It was seven seventeen when she opened the door to her flat. One minute later, she found Irene Adler unconscious in her bed. The room was still dark, but enough light came through the gap in the curtains that Molly could make out the slender leg, still in ridiculously high heels, draped across the comforter.  
    “Bugger!” Molly hissed quietly in annoyance. She so wanted to be on-time to see John, and the only way to do that would be to ignore Irene, and deal with her later.  
    Opening her closet, Molly found a suitable outfit by the light of her mobile, then turned to go to the shower. As she did so, the bluish beam fell on Irene’s face and Molly dropped her phone for the second time that day.  
    “Mousy?” Irene’s voice was raspy, weak, and not the least bit sexy.  
    “I’m here.” Molly was already sitting on the edge of the bed, turning on night table lamp. She winced at the sight of The Woman, well and truly beaten. This was no sex game gone wrong. It had been a vicious attack, but there was so much matted blood and swelling that Molly couldn’t see the extent of the damage.  
    “Irene,” Molly swallowed. She could handle all the violence she saw because her patients were already dead. It was much harder to be calm knowing Irene was suffering. “I’m going to touch you now, check for swelling and breaks. I’ll try to be as gentle as I can.”  
    Irene’s skin was warm to the touch, but thankfully not feverish. Molly felt along her ribs, noting that they all seemed to be intact. Her fingers moved to Irene’s flat stomach, searching for any of the obvious signs of internal bleeding. Of course, it was impossible to rule that out completely by only a physical exam, but Molly doubted that she was in any imminent danger. She lifted both hands to Irene’s scalp, moving through the tangled hair to search for knots or other trauma to the head. Thankfully, there were no bumps, and the blood matted into the front part of her hair seemed to have come from a fairly deep laceration near the hairline, not a gaping wound hidden under her dark curls.  
   “We need to get you cleaned off so I can see your injuries better.” Molly paused. “Unless you want to report this to the police by going to the hospital,”  
    “No!” Her response was strangled, coming from a severely bruised throat. “I’ve already resolved the issue.” There was a hint of her typical arrogance that statement.  
    Molly couldn’t stop a small smile from forming at the corner of her mouth. “So the other guy looks worse?” The pathologist in her hated to wash away evidence, but the odds that Irene’s attacker was an average criminal who would (or could) be caught were slim.  
    “The other guy is dead,” Irene said flatly.  
     “Well, then, a bath it is.” Molly stood, choosing to ignore the implications of that statement for the moment. “I’ll be back in a minute to help you.”  
She went back to the front room after scooping up her mobile. There was no chance of meeting up with John now. She tried to think of a suitable way to excuse herself.  
     _Sorry, John, I can’t make it tonight. My sister needs help with the twins – they’re sick with flu. I still want to meet Mary. Let me know when we can reschedule_.  
     Molly hated to lie, but it was nothing new at this point. She didn’t wait for John’s reply, but switched off the mobile. She would feel guilty either way, and right now she needed to focus on helping Irene.  
     In the bathroom, Molly laid out the basic first aid supplies she kept on hand, and got a stack of fresh towels from the closet. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, her lip trembling.  
    “Get it together, Molly Elizabeth Hooper,” she told herself sternly, then went back to get her first living patient in over a year.  
     Once Irene was in the bright and sunny yellow tiled bathroom, the severity of her injuries was more apparent. Beneath the bruising, which covered most of the face, Molly could see at least two places that would require stitches – that nasty gash above her brow, and a smaller, but still deep one over her left cheekbone. Those lips, usually curled into a mocking smile, were split. Molly also feared that under the swelling that distorted the center of her face, The Woman’s lovely nose was broken.  
     Keeping her movements as clinical as possible, Molly carefully undressed The Woman. Her clothes, a rather simple black pencil skirt and a cream silk blouse, were already torn and bloodied beyond repair. It was quick work to undo the buttons on the blouse and unzip the skirt. Under her clothes, there were additional bruises blossoming in horrible shades of purple and blue across the pale canvas of her skin. There was a silk scarf wrapped protectively around her neck, and Molly gently unwound it, revealing the shape and size of her attacker’s fingers.  
     Molly was still for a few seconds, gauging that the attacker had been a large man, with very large hands, and thinking that Sherlock would have deduced that fact, along with a complete mental map of the entire struggle. Stripping down to her bra and underwear, Molly turned on the shower, adjusted the water, then helped Irene into the stream.  
     It was a bit awkward to wash Irene off and support most of her weight at the same time, but Molly was stronger than her small frame indicated (lots of pilates and swimming at her fitness center). With a steady hand, Molly wet the washcloth and wiped away the blood, carefully dabbing around the areas where the skin was split. After the blood was rinsed away, Molly ran a warm bath and poured in some Epsom salts. She lowered Irene into the bottom of the tub, then got out, took off her wet underclothes and put on her purple cotton robe which was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Once she was settled, Molly took her ice pack and laid it against Irene’s nose.  
     “Hold that there. I’ll just be a moment,” Molly murmured, then headed to the kitchen for her other medical kit. This was the one left over from treating Sherlock after the fall, and had a much wider variety of supplies, including a needle and thread, as well as some pain killers.  
      Opening the cabinet to get the kit, Molly was reminded of how she had patched up the detective.  Her hands had touched him from head to toe that night, something she had long dreamed of doing, but she might as well have been an art restorer, repairing a Grecian statue. His skin had been marble, smooth and cold, and those pale blue eyes had been far away, almost catatonic. If Molly hadn’t known about his mind palace, she would have taken him to the hospital despite everything. As it was, she had maintained the silence, not attempting to speak to him while she fixed his dislocated shoulder, taped his ribs, and wrapped his sprained ankle.  
      “Thank you, Molly,” he spoke in a near whisper, but that baritone carried easily across the room where she was putting away her kit.  
She didn’t trust herself to look at him immediately. She was afraid her face would give away how grateful she was that he was alive, and how much his thanks meant to her, that little scrap of something resembling affection that she so pathetically treasured.  
      “Stop over thinking those words, Molly,” Sherlock’s voice was back to its normal exasperated tone. “You’re giving me a worse headache than I already have.”  
      “Yes, well,” Molly kept her back to him, took down her tea tin and two cups from the shelf above the hob. “Words are never just words with you, Sherlock.”  
       He gave her a quizzical look; she caught it as she finally turned around to fill the kettle.  
       Knowing he wouldn’t let her fail to elaborate, Molly continued. “With you, words are either meaningless, as in the case of the lies and manipulation you use to get what you want, or so genuine I think you might actually have a heart after all.”  
       It was Sherlock’s turn to avoid eye contact. His brow wrinkled, and it was clear he making an effort to think before he spoke. The very fact that he cared enough to try to moderate his replies gave Molly another rush of bittersweet pleasure.  
      “I know I am - ” he paused to choose his words, “not prone to showing emotion other than excitement over a case or impatience and annoyance. I see how others are and it seems a disadvantage, a weakness, to be controlled by one’s feelings.”  
       His eyes were directly staring at Molly now, pining her to the spot like a butterfly in a display case. “But,” Sherlock rose, not seeming to notice his discomfort, which must have been considerable. He came to stand before her, so close she could see the subtle rise and fall of his bare chest. She did her best to not let the sight and smell of him affect her breathing.  “I do feel, Molly.” He finished.  
       She was still staring at his chest, locking her gaze on a faint scar under his collarbone, so he was speaking to the top of her head. Had she washed her hair that morning? She couldn’t remember.  
      A finger was sliding under her chin, lifting it up until she was looking into those eyes, more black pupil than icy blue iris at the moment. Surely his pupils were dilated from the pain he was in, she told herself.  
      “I meant it when I said thank you,” Sherlock’s tone was low and stern.  
       Molly fought against the urge to shudder at the sound of his voice, so close and forceful she could practically feel it vibrating through her.  
     “I meant it when I said you mattered,” he continued. “And I mean it now when I promise that I will never lie to you or give you false compliments to manipulate you ever again.”  
      He was kissing her forehead then, his lips moving against her skin as he said, in a softer voice, “If I believed in such things, I would say you are my angel, Molly Hooper. You are what I cannot be.”  
      Molly leaned into his lips, his arms, which had enclosed her in a tight embrace. She reminded herself that this was gratitude and friendship, not romance or anything approaching it.  
      They hadn’t touched again after that, other than fingers brushing over the handing of tea cups or the take away cartons. Molly had insisted he eat, and he had humored her by taking a few bites of the food she gave him. He didn’t say goodbye, either. He had simply been gone when she’d come back from visiting John and Mrs. Hudson on the third day after the fall. There was no evidence he’s been there except for that shirt, smelling of sea salt and cold winds.  
       Molly shook herself out of the memory and gathered the supplies. Then she went into the bedroom and grabbed the grey shirt, along with a pair of loose pajama bottoms. She briefly considered which knickers to take, but laughed at herself for supposing that Irene actually wore that article of clothing. Ever. There hadn’t been any under the pencil skirt Molly had recently divested her of. No panty lines for The Woman.  
       It was easy to smile in the darkness of her bedroom, but back in the bathroom, under the bright lights, Molly was reminded anew of how badly Irene had been beaten.  
   “Do you have any allergies or addictions?” Molly allowed her training to take over. “Only, I’m going to give you a shot of morphine, and”  
    “No allergies, no drugs,” Irene rasped.  
     Molly gave her a sharp look. “I know about the drug you gave Sherlock. Greg showed me the video Anderson took of Sherlock stumbling around like a drunk. If you have addiction issues,”  
     Irene shook her head with great difficulty, the ice pack sliding forward. “Only used it on others – subs. I would never give up control in that way.”  
     In her line of work, Molly was continuously surprised at what drugs, both illegal and prescription, turned up on tox screens for the people in her morgue - grandmothers who had died high on cocktails of painkillers, businessmen who shot heroin between their toes. She had trained herself to be suspicious, but when Irene so clearly equated drug use with the loss of control, Molly believed her. The Woman was not one to give the upper hand to anyone or anything else willingly.  
    Carefully lifting Irene’s arm to the tub ledge, Molly looked for a strong vein amid the finger-shaped bruises. She gave the injection as quickly and skillfully as she could, but IVs and shots had never been her strong suit. Irene didn’t complain, though, she simply made a fist to help Molly find the vein, then closed her eyes in clear relief as the pain lessened.  
    Molly realized as she watched The Woman’s head loll to the side in a relaxed motion that Irene must trust her greatly to be so vulnerable in front of her, to have come to her apartment. It’s not like she had a lot of options, the catty voice in her head snapped. She’s supposed to be dead – twice over.  
It doesn’t matter right now. She needs help, she answered back to herself, ending the conversation. Moving slowly and with a gentle touch, Molly drained the water, dried off Irene’s skin and hair, and helped her into the pants and shirt. She settled her patient back in bed, then took the shade off the lamp for better lighting.  
    It took two hours to get Irene completely patched up. There was no blood or clear fluid coming from the nostrils, and only a slight bend to the bridge, so Molly was fairly sure it was a simple fracture. She set the bone as fast as she could, wincing at the slight choking sound that issued from Irene. The majority of the time was spent meticulously sewing up Irene’s two lacerations. Even though she had mixed feelings about The Woman, Molly was very good at this, and now she did her best work, making tiny stitches to ensure that the scars left would minimal, especially under a bit of clever make up.  
    “Thank you, mousy,” Irene sounded even more raw than before, if that were possible.  
     “Let me get all these things put away, and I’ll make you some tea,” Molly fused with the needle, thread, and bandage packaging. “Some honey will help that throat.”  
     This time, Irene only nodded, and relaxed into the pillow. Molly was rather quick about the cleanup and tea preparation, but by the time she came back into the bedroom with a small tray, Irene was fast asleep.  
     She sat on the side of the bed opposite Irene and drank a cup while she watched The Woman, wondering what in the world she was mixed up in, and whether or not it was a bad idea to keep her here. However, it just wasn’t her nature to refuse help to someone who so clearly needed it, so Molly put the tray back in the kitchen and climbed into bed beside Irene, careful not to jostle her. She turned off the bedside lamp, placed a tiny kiss on Irene’s temple (one of the few places on her face still its original color) and went to sleep.

oOo0oOo

     Molly took two days off to tend to Irene, and by the third day she was convinced there was no permanent damage. Irene’s bruises were fading to varying shades of yellow, and the swelling was mostly gone from her nose. The stitches were healing nicely, and Irene had refused any additional pain medicine other than some aspirin. She had, however, drank all of Molly’s tea and used up a bottle of honey. Trust The Woman to have a sweet tooth.  
    “I’ll stop by the shop after work,” Molly said as she ate her quick breakfast of toast with butter and jam. “Is there anything you would like?”  
     Irene was sitting in the green chair again, her knees drawn up to her chest, wearing Molly’s house robe and looking as beautiful as ever, even with the bruises and stitches. How did she do that, Molly wondered.  
     “Nothing except your company, mousy,” Irene smiled, and this time it was a sweet expression, not full of sex and mockery.  
     A blush swept over Molly’s face, and the involuntary response annoyed her. No one besides Sherlock flustered her in this way. Why was she attracted to them? Was it the case of the moth and the flame? If so, her chances didn’t look good.  
     “You don’t need to feel distressed because you like me,” Irene spoke in soothing tones. “I am very likeable.”  
    “Except when you are plotting to take down governments with psychopathic megalomaniacs,” Molly countered tartly.  
    “And here I thought you were the forgiving kind,” Irene unfolded her legs and rose to her feet. She moved gingerly, but without any other outward signs of pain. “What if I told you I’m a changed woman?”  
    Molly laughed in answer.  
    Irene joined in softly. “Fine, what if I told you that I have changed neither my personality nor my proclivities, but I have given up blackmail on a global scale. I will not endanger any country’s national security.” She came to stand beside Molly and put a hand over hers, running a finger along the side of Molly’s wrist. “Such behavior is apparently bad for my health.”  
    Although it was probably a good sign that Irene could laugh at her injuries, Molly couldn’t. “Will you tell me what happened?”  
     Irene’s face tightened. “Tonight, over dinner.”  
     “Are you cooking?” Molly had an image of Irene in a lacy apron with nothing underneath.  
     “Heaven forbid,” Irene grimaced. “I’ll order in.” She glanced at the clock. “Now, off you pop – you’ll be late to work.” The Woman kissed Molly’s cheek, her touch sending an electric charge down Molly’s body.  
     “Right.” Molly dropped her half-eaten toast back onto the plate, and swallowed her last bit of tea. “I’ll see you tonight, then.” She did her best to banish all thoughts of a naked Irene from her mind. Work would help, she told herself. She just had to get to work.

oOo0oOo

      There was no hiding from The Woman, not even in the morgue. Molly spent her day thinking of Irene and lying to her colleagues. It seemed every few minutes, people came in to tell her they hoped she was feeling better. Molly rarely missed work, and it was nice to know that she was missed. It reminded her that she did have normal relationships – ones not involving emotionally unavailable geniuses or manipulative dominatrices. Of course, the last time she tried to go out with a “normal” person, she had ended up sleeping with quite possibly the most evil man in the world. They’d only had three dates before Molly had called it off on Sherlock’s advice. And though he had probably been wrong about the gay bit, Sherlock’s warning to “break it off and save herself the pain” had been spot-on. Maybe, she told herself, she should accept that she couldn’t have a normal relationship, that like Irene and Sherlock, she had an attraction to danger.  
      Between catching up on paper work and making a list of supplies to be ordered for the morgue and the lab, Molly should have had plenty to keep her occupied, but flashes of Irene’s face, lips, and opalescent skin kept creeping into her mind. Memories of how her entire body reacted to The Woman’s presence, of how Irene didn’t even need to touch her to make Molly’s skin feel like it had met with an electric charge interrupted her thoughts and made it difficult to concentrate.  
     She was grateful when the door to her office opened and Greg Lestrade walked in, even though he had a frown on his face.  
     “Molly, glad to see you’re back,” he clearly had something else on his mind as he spoke these words, because he didn’t look at all glad.  
      “Thanks, Greg. I am feeling better.” The lie, repeated so frequently that day, didn’t require any thought on her part. Since Sherlock’s fall, she had gotten much, much better at lying.  
     “I was sorry you couldn’t make it to the pub the other night,” the detective continued, still distracted. “Mary is nice – smart and funny – and she doesn’t take any shit. John’s quite taken with her, and I don’t think even Sherlock could have scared her away.”  
     Whenever one of her friends mentioned Sherlock, Molly felt a bit of sick in the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, but Greg didn’t notice. “That’s, er, good. John needs someone. He doesn’t do so well on his own, I think.”  
    “Yeah, not like you and me, eh?” Greg gave a harsh laugh, then stopped himself. “Sorry, Molly. Guess I’m still a bit shirty over the divorce.”  
      Molly liked Greg. She really did. They had been out to drinks a few times, when the divorce was still on-going, and she had had the feeling that if she had made the slightest hint of a move, they could have been getting it off immediately. She had even gone so far as to imagine what his lips would feel like. He smelled like coffee and polished shoes and the peppermint candies he fancied. Molly thought he would have tasted like Christmas morning, but he was a present she was afraid to unwrap. Things were already so complicated with Sherlock (at least on her end), and now Irene, and she wanted to keep all the friendships intact for when Sherlock returned. Because he would return. He would. He must.  
     “No worries, Greg,” Molly patted his arm lightly and only a bit awkwardly.  
      Greg shook his head. “Anyhow, I’m here to ask about the man from the shower, Mr. Baldacci. Do you have a final report done?”  
      Molly moved a few files on her desk. “Yes. I finished it this morning. Definitely foul play. Someone knocked him unconscious with a blunt object, probably a hammer, then put him in the tub, drowned him, drained the water, and ran the shower to make it look like he slipped and hit his head. Actually a pretty bodged job.”  
      “Yeah, that’s what I thought. The wife’s got a lover,” he gave a weak smile. “I suppose I should be grateful my ex never thought to plot my death with the gym teacher.”  
     “Greg,” Molly wasn’t sure what to say to that.  
      “Thanks, Molly,” he tapped the folder against the desk and began walking toward the door. He turned and said, “Next time we have a night out, I hope you can come.”  
      “I will,” Molly promised, but she was glad he was leaving and she was wondering if there was anyone here at work that he might like.  
      Her attention shifted to the computer screen on her desk, which had flashed to a blue screen, and she watched in confusion as white lettering scrolled across it. _Dr. Hooper, it appears we should talk. Please come downstairs. There is a car waiting_.  
      She stared at the screen as the lettering blinked a few times, then disappeared, her regular desktop back in place. John had mentioned the imperious summonses of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, and although Molly had only met the man once, she had a sinking feeling that the time to pay the piper had arrived. Mycroft knew everything. He knew of Sherlock’s plan to fake his death, of Molly’s involvement, and she was fairly certain he knew about Irene’s return to London.  
      There was no point in resisting; it was time for her shift to end anyway. She put on her coat, grabbed her bag, and locked the office. The car waiting was a limousine, but she still was briefly reminded of the taxi Jim had gotten, and she shuddered.  
      An attractive woman in a bespoke black coat and shoes that were surely at least worth a few thousand pounds was sitting in the back seat, eyes glued to her mobile screen.  
      “Hello?” Molly asked, a bit uncertain.  
      “Yes.” The woman said, and patted the seat beside her. Molly sat, and the woman immediately went back to looking at her phone. “I’m Anthea,” she said, but still not sparing Molly a glance as the car pulled away from the curb.  
      “And?” Molly was getting a bit cheesed. Why did everyone think she was a compliant pawn, to be moved as needed for everyone else’s end game? What about her own end game? All she wanted was to be in love, and be loved in return, and do some damn good in the world. Was that such a bleeding difficult request?  
      Anthea did not answer; her fingers moved across the keys. A lifetime of annoyance rose up inside Molly and she knocked the phone rather violently from the other woman’s hand.  
     “Where are we going? Why does a man who has only met me once think I’m at his fucking beck and call?” Molly’s voice reverberated in the small space.  Maybe, she thought, the point of resisting was resistance itself.  And it was high time that she started resisting.  
      With eyes that flashed with suppressed anger, Anthea bent down and picked her phone up from the floor. She did not say a word, but returned to her texting.  
      Molly screamed. Very loudly. She listened to herself, to the horrible sounds she was making, and wondered if this was it. Had she finally reached the breaking point? Was Molly Elizabeth Hooper destined for Bedlam? At this moment, she certainly felt like she might be a danger to others.  
      The car came to a stop at a light next to a tube entrance and Molly was out the door before Anthea could look up from her tiny screen. She had her oyster card in her bag, and she fished it out as she ran down the stairs, blending in with the rest of the rush hour traffic. She had no illusions that she had eluded Mycroft. He could find her anywhere. But, goddammit, he was going to come to her if he wanted to talk.


	3. What do you get when you put two switches together?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Irene get hot and bothered...and they both end up on top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and the comments! This chapter is a bit short, but I wanted to post something before holiday madness. I hope you enjoy!

When Molly arrived home, she was exhausted. In the station, she had taken the first train to come, and had stood, leaning against the car door, feeling the rush of adrenaline from her flight flood her body. To someone who spent most of her life trying to please others, this was a new, intense sensation. It was several stops in the wrong direction before she had the presence of mind to transfer to the correct line. On the ride home she had thought about her impulsive and angry behavior. Molly had been raised to be polite and patient. She gave kindness and affection to others without expectation of returns. It was time to make a new Molly Elizabeth Hooper. 

Just how she was going to do that was unclear, but as she held on to the overhead bar, Molly came up with a few basic rules: 1) No more patiently enduring rude behavior from others (namely the Holmes brothers); 2) No more favors without explanations; 3) No more overthinking every decision; 4) No more waiting for futures that might never arrive; 5) Enroll in some type of self-defense course at the gym. The last rule she tacked on because of what had happened to Irene, and also because in all the movies she had seen where women finally took control of their lives, they always seemed to learn karate or boxing or, in the case of American women, how to shoot guns. Guns were out, but maybe she could throw knives. She was already good with a scalpel and she knew her way around the human body. Molly had to smile at the thought of herself in a black leather outfit, strapped with knives of various shapes and sizes. 

Of course, thinking of black leather lead her thoughts to Irene, and Molly was doing her best to keep her mind focused on anger rather than lust when she entered her apartment. She wanted to know what Irene had done, what she had been dragged into. As she opened the door, the smell of steak hit her nose. The table was set, plates filled with filets, baked potatoes, and sautéed vegetables, a candle and flowers in the center, beside a bottle of wine opened to breathe. 

“Welcome home, dear,” Irene was standing in the door to the bedroom, draped in something so sheer and lacey that Molly wasn’t sure it could be called clothing. The plum colored filmy fabric was more like a cloud around her flesh, so light weight it didn’t seem to rest on her skin. “Tough day?”

“Mycroft Holmes tried to make it difficult, but I decided I wasn’t going to let him.” Molly sat down at the table. She was hungry, and the food smelled too good to ignore. 

“Ah, the Iceman cometh.” Irene walked towards her. “The Holmes boys do love to complicate.”

Molly noted that Irene was moving at nearly her normal pace, and the finger marks on her neck were now somewhere between purple and green, a shade that was strangely complimentary to her negligee. “Yes, well, I’m un-complicating the matter by refusing his invitation.” 

Irene sat beside Molly, pulled her chair so close their thighs touched under the table. “Mmmm, that’s easier said than done.” 

“Aren’t you in pain?” Molly headed off further conversation about Mycroft, surprised that Irene was moving around so much with extensive bruising and trying to ignore how good it felt when Irene’s leg came into contact with her own. 

“I have a high threshold for discomfort,” Irene’s smile was tight enough to keep her lips from splitting where they had formed delicate scabs. 

Molly shook her head, mustering the courage to ask a question that had been rolling around in her mind since Irene had sent her that first text. “How did you know you liked…”

“Discomfort?” Irene gave a soft laugh as she poured the wine and handed Molly a glass. “Actually, I discovered that I liked causing it first, and then I realized, through trial and error, that I enjoy both ends of the spectrum, and which role I play depends on my partner.”

“Partner? I thought you only had ‘clients’,” Molly took a sip of the wine. It was a merlot, tasting of spicy chocolate and raspberries. 

Irene put down her glass and began to cut the steak. The juices ran red onto the plate. It was no surprise to Molly that Irene like her meat raw and bloody. “Clients are for business, partners are for pleasure. I would like to make you my partner.”

Molly flushed, focused on eating the delicious meal instead of looking at The Woman. “Did your injuries have to do with a client?”

“I am never so careless, I would hope, especially since Sherlock” Irene answered. “My bruises were a present from Sebastian Moran, or actually, one of his thugs.”

“Who’s”

Irene cut in. “Moran is Moriarty’s right-hand man. He was used for muscle, but Moran has plenty of brains as well. Since Moriarty’s death, Moran has been attempting to keep the empire Jim created running, but our dearly departed genius with a knack for trouble has been dismantling it piece by piece.”

Molly leaned forward, feeling tense at the mention of Jim’s name. Even dead, this man had the power to hurt her and her friends. “How do you know all this? Have you talked with Sherlock?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, mousy,” Irene sipped her wine. “I know this because I know Sherlock. Who else would be sabotaging Moriarty’s legacy? Sherlock wants to come back, but first, he wants a complete reckoning. He won’t consider himself finished until every trace of Moriarty’s influence has been obliterated.”

The old Molly, so deeply ingrained to be unsure around strong emotions, gave a small, nervous laugh. “Eh, that sounds, eh, thorough,”

“You’ve never seen Sherlock truly angry, have you?” Irene caught Molly’s gaze and held it. Her eyes were amused. “Trust me, it is a gloriously terrifying sight. I saw his anger, colder than Mycroft ever dreamed of being, right before he left me to the wolves.”

Before Molly could make a sound of protest, Irene continued. “But that’s old news. He came back to “save” me, considered that he even redeemed me in a way. I still love the man, in my special way. The only reason I bring it up is because his hatred for Moriarty, for the man who threatened everything Sherlock held dear, goes beyond anything you have ever experienced, Molly. Moriarty tried to burn the heart out of our detective, but Sherlock’s response will be the equivalent of nuclear fallout on anything Moriarty ever touched. ”

Despite a desperate attempt not to, Molly flushed, her skin turning hot with shame.

“Present company excluded, of course, but then Sherlock doesn’t know exactly how extensively Moriarty touched you, does he?” Irene’s tone was matter of fact, not mocking at all. 

“It was none of his business,” Molly stated firmly, her face still burning. 

“You don’t have to be ashamed, mousy, it was just sex.” The word “sex” came out like a caress. “It’s not like you gave him a piece of your soul.” 

Molly gave a snort. “Like he’d have known what to do with a soul.”

“Well, we can worry about your soul later, ” Irene pushed back her plate. “Right now, I’d say that you need something more carnal.”

The old Molly would have sputtered. She would have said “Eh” or “Um” in a hesitant, girlish voice. The new Molly remained strategically silent as The Woman positioned herself in Molly’s lap. The doctor in Molly wondered briefly at Irene’s ability to engage in much with her injuries, but she reminded herself that Irene had no internal damage, and she was apparently at home with a bit of pain. Yes, the old Molly would definitely have squeaked aloud at that thought. 

Irene’s weight was a seductive pressure. Molly hadn’t been this close to anyone in so long. Slowly, Molly pushed The Woman’s dark curls over her shoulder. She had been surprised and pleased to see Irene’s hair down this evening. Molly liked it better when those long, glossy locks flowed freely. Now that Irene’s neck was bare, Molly leaned in and put her nose as close as she could without actually touching Irene’s flesh. The Woman smelled spicy from the wine, and sweet from Molly’s berry scented shampoo. Then, there was her normal scent, that heady and contradictory concoction of light citrus and sex-laden musk. The old Molly wouldn’t have gotten so close, but the new Molly breathed her in, reveling in how amazing she smelled. Molly had never gone down on a woman, but the smell of Irene made her want to give it a proper try. 

Irene didn’t lean into her, didn’t try to push Molly to touch her, or go at any speed other than the pace she was setting. Instead, Irene sat patiently, feeling Molly so close, her breathing quickening as Molly’s breath warmed her throat. Carefully, Molly reached out and traced the bruises on Irene’s throat. She let her hand be pulled by gravity, trailing down The Woman’s collarbone, following the plunging neckline to the space between her breasts. 

With a calm that belied the storm inside her, Molly gently moved the gossamer fabric aside, revealing a pale breast that sloped softly into tips of a darker rose color than Molly would have expected. Irene’s nipple was small and pert, much like the breast itself. Briefly, Sherlock’s criticism about her own breast size flitted through her head, but she pushed it away. Sherlock was not here now. This moment was about The Woman and what she could teach the new Molly. She lowered her mouth to Irene’s nipple, first placing whispers of kisses around the areola, then using her tongue to outline it, stubbornly refusing to give the hardened tip any attention. Her fingers were near her mouth, drawing circles into the tender skin, but avoiding the spot Irene wanted most. 

Irene’s hands were in Molly’s hair, pulling strands loose from her ponytail. Those long, firm, cool fingers were barely restraining themselves from grabbing Molly’s head and forcing her lips onto the rosy peak. Molly could feel The Woman’s impatience, and she smiled into her flesh, allowing her bottom lip to graze ever so slightly against her nipple. Irene gave a sigh, a low exhalation that could have been a command or a plea. Everything was so ambiguous with her. Molly thought Irene could use some straightforward torture.

She turned to the other breast and repeated her caresses, leaving the nipple untouched. Molly came back to the middle of Irene’s chest and simply laid her head there for a moment, listening to The Woman’s heart beat and feeling her smooth skin. Then, she gently scooted Irene off her lap, took her hand, and led her to the bedroom. 

Irene followed her without a word until they reached the bed. Molly had sat on the edge, and pulled Irene, still standing, between her legs. 

“I can do slow and gentle for your first time,” Irene gazed down at Molly, her eyes now filled with the sex and danger Molly had missed the last few days. “And I will love it, make no mistake about that. But if we go forward with a sexual relationship after tonight, we’ll need to discuss some ground rules.”

“Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you, Irene?” Molly grinned. It was refreshing to speak her mind, especially when it was saucy. “You’ll need to impress me first before I consider getting all kinky with you.”

“Mmmm,” Irene leaned down, her lips touching Molly’s as she spoke. “I’m going to love slapping that cheek out of you.”

Molly answered with a kiss. Except it wasn’t so much a kiss as it was an explosion. The tension they had built left even the air flammable around them, and when their lips finally connected, Molly half expected to be blown apart. Irene was a skillful kisser, her lips parting and closing, her tongue darting and licking, her teeth coming in to nibble on Molly’s lower lip with a force that left her whole face tingling. She was assertive, but not demanding, and Molly found that she was kissing Irene even harder back. She couldn’t help it – it had been so bloody long since she’d had this kind of contact, and it was so good, so arousing, Molly just wanted to lose herself in Irene, in her mouth. A trickle of something warm and bitter entered the kiss and Molly knew that Irene’s lip had split open again. She started to pull back, but Irene’s hand on the back of her neck kept her in place. Molly kissed through the bit of blood and wondered if this was an omen. If so, she was going to ignore it.

“Do you want the lead?” Irene came up for air, her voice low, dripping with a level of sexual knowledge Molly could barely comprehend. “Or do you want me to take you?”

At the words, “take you,” Molly’s whole body shivered in a response so quick and primal, she didn’t think, only felt. Yes, yes, yes. She wanted this woman, The Woman, to take her. 

Irene could discern sexual desire like Sherlock could identify tobacco ash. Molly didn’t need to put her yearning into words. She only had to look at The Woman and nod, her lips still swollen and pouting from the long, hard kiss. Placing her hands on the bottom of Molly’s shirt, Irene pulled up, leaving the pathologist in a pale blue bra and her serviceable black work trousers. A few seconds later, those were gone too, and Molly was naked in front of another person for the first time in over a year. 

As Molly tried not to feel vulnerable and exposed, Irene shed her negligee and sat down on the bed beside her. The Woman did not touch her immediately; she simply studied Molly from head to toe. 

“You’re quite a pretty little thing,” Irene breathed, wrapping an arm around Molly and pulling her back onto the pillows, which smelled of them both. “I’m going to eat you up like candy.”

Molly blushed. She knew she was attractive enough, but she didn’t often get compliments. 

“You would look lovely in a collar.” The Woman was up on her elbows, stroking Molly’s throat. “My collar.”

Before Molly could reflect upon these words, she was being kissed again, and she had the fleeting thought if Irene kept talking to her like this, kept claiming her mouth in this wonderfully possessive way, she would wear anything The Woman requested. But then the kisses were progressing, and Irene’s long, nimble fingers were everywhere at once, pinching, pressing, prodding. This was not slow and gentle, which spoke volumes about Irene’s understanding of those words. If Moriarty had skirted the boundaries of playful roughness, Molly had no doubt that Irene was going to push her over the edge into something that she might not be able to escape.

Right now, Molly wasn’t in the mood to consider consequences, nor the fact that Irene’s handling felt more real than any of the tentative touches previous lovers had used on her – all except him. She moved into those hands, offering herself up willingly. Irene was holding her wrists by her side now, keeping them in place while she bit at the tender flesh of Molly’s stomach. From her place on the pillow, Molly could see the red marks forming, and they excited her. 

“I have a feeling you are going to be my best ever before I’m done,” Irene laughed softly into Molly’s flesh. “I may not give you up to our dear detective after all.”

Molly refused to let Sherlock enter her mind. Her love for him burned so brightly, it would eclipse even this pleasure. And she needed this. So she shut the door and focused on the other pair of icy blue eyes that had captivated her. “I’m not interested in talking right now, Irene.”

An arched eyebrow was quickly followed by Irene’s tongue plunging into a very sensitive spot and Molly’s hips arching several inches off the bed. Jim had given the best head Molly had ever had, but his quick, almost manic motions could not compare to the harsh, insistent flicks and twists that were interspersed with slow, gentle, teasing taps and even nuzzling by The Woman’s lips, tongue, and teeth. 

Just as Molly was adjusting to the rough then light rhythm, Irene lifted her head and slid up the length of Molly’s body, releasing her wrists, and burying her fingers in Molly’s hair. Irene gave a tug that brought water to the corners of Molly’s eyes, but she didn’t cry out. Instead, her breath came faster and heavier as Irene maneuvered her to kneel on the floor. Irene sat on the edge of the bed. 

“Since you don’t want to talk, I think we’ll put your mouth to better use.” Irene twisted her fingers and forced Molly’s face to her feet. “Start there and work your way up.” She released her grip and spread her legs, revealing what was most certainly a Brazilian wax. Her eyes were glowing with power, and Molly could see the pink folds between her thighs glistening. 

The old Molly would have been hesitant. She would have felt like an imposter, playing at sexual games she didn’t know. But the new Molly was running on desire, and she was surprised to find there was nothing she wanted more than to place tiny, careful kisses on Irene’s beautifully pedicured feet, up her ankles, then follow the line of her long, lovely formed leg to the place that smelled of honey and lemon, tart and sweet. 

Irene had said that she liked both giving and receiving pain, but Molly wasn’t sure that she could hurt The Woman. It wasn’t in her nature (old or new) to intentionally cause pain to anyone. With fingers that were more used to touching dead than live flesh, Molly parted the thin folds of Irene’s labia, gently kissing them as she did, to expose the tightly bound ball of nerves at the heart. She took a breath, and lowered her mouth, remembering advice in a silly magazine about advising partners to trace the alphabet into the clitoris. Molly chose to let her mouth make the motions of naming the muscles in the human body, starting with the occipitofrontalis. 

Apparently, Irene’s body approved of this plan, as she was soon cupping Molly’s head, pushing her closer. Molly complied, her tongue moving faster now. Irene tasted like homemade lemon curd, rich, creamy, and tangy. When she was seven, Molly had made herself sick from eating a whole jar of lemon curd in her nana’s kitchen. She hadn’t been sorry then, and she was in heaven now. Her manners and inhibitions deserted her, and Molly tucked into Irene like a starving woman faced with an endless buffet. 

This was all for her. She barely heard Irene’s moans, but their echoes spurred her own. Her hands were now under The Woman’s buttocks, thrusting the angle of her hips closer, so close Molly could hardly breathe, but she didn’t think she needed to any longer. What she did need was the opposite of what she had thought. She didn’t need Irene to take her. She needed to take her, to reduce The Woman into a quivering jelly of pleasure, incapable of witty retorts. To take that power and nullify it. 

Seconds later, when that perfectly posh throat was thrown back in an unexpected and unqualified surrender, when the screams were ringing in Molly’s ears, and the hips were bucking hard enough to throw off a less determined lover, Molly pushed harder, took more, and laughed aloud when the downstairs neighbor thumped on the ceiling in warning. Only when she realized Irene was crying, properly, with tears streaming down her face, did Molly lift her head. 

Her rush of pleasure at winning dimmed, and Molly wrapped the bruised woman in her arms. Irene’s dark head lay on her breast, wetting it with her tears, but Molly held the silence, sensing that was what The Woman wanted. When Irene’s breathing had slowed so much that Molly knew she was sleeping, she turned off the bedside lamp and pondered what had just happened. Somehow, the dynamics of this relationship had become even more complicated, but the new Molly wasn’t put off. She was stepping off this cliff. Leap and the net will appear. She repeated this mantra as she fell asleep in the arms of the second most dangerous lover she’d had.


	4. Sex, Sex, Sex (with a smattering of Mycroft)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly confronts Mycroft directly, learns something about Sherlock, learns something about herself, and negotiates a relationship with Irene...oh, and lots of sexy stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make it clear that the D/s relationship that is evolving between Molly and Irene is just that - evolving. It is an organic thing, and it is not an easy thing to label. Both ladies have both tendencies, which complicates matters, but I think complications are beautiful! Please be aware that this relationship is based on my own experiences and understands, and is not intended to be a representation of standard D/s practices (if there is such a thing).

            Molly was having a decidedly naughty dream.  For most of her life, she had been an extremely conscious dreamer, which meant that she noticed when her dreams veered into the impossible and usually rejected those scenarios.  Her dream self was a wet blanket who liked to say things like: “Even in your REM state, that would never happen, Molly Elizabeth Hooper.”  But this time, she embraced her fantasies and fell into a tangle of limbs with both Irene and Sherlock.  She let her imagination run and soon found herself sandwiched between the two on a soft bed, face buried in Irene while Sherlock pounded her into oblivion from behind, which resulted in an orgasm so intense she woke up screaming, fingers curling into the sheets and hips twitching of their own accord.

 

            “Kinsey’s research suggested that over 40% of women experience sexual fulfillment in their sleep.  Apparently you’ve joined that happy group, Dr. Hooper.”

 

            Still riding an endorphin high that had her eyes rolling back into her head, Molly attempted to focus on the voice issuing from the corner of her bedroom.  Was that _Mycroft_?

 

            “I take it from the way you were panting my brother’s name that Ms. Adler is not the only object of your affection.”

 

            Good God, it was Mycroft.  In her bedroom.  Listening to her sex dream soundtrack. 

 

            There was movement beside Molly, and she turned her head to see Irene sitting up beside her, adjusting her back against the headboard.  Irene, having just opened her eyes, managed to look completely collected and dead sexy, her hair falling in soft, tousled curls around her face.  Even bruised, The Woman exuded power and presence.  Why the hell couldn’t she do that?  _Remember your rules, Molly!  No getting bullied anymore_ , her inner voice hissed.  _Now grow a bleeding backbone and sit up!_  

 

            “I know laws like breaking and entering don’t apply to you, Mycroft,” Molly spat out, her anger growing as she sat up to see the vague, self-satisfied smile on the elder Holmes’s face, “but for someone who claims to be The British Government, I would have hoped you had some common courtesy.  Get the hell out of my bedroom.”

 

            Mycroft waved his hand dismissively.  “I tried polite yesterday, Dr. Hooper.”

 

            “Is it polite to send an assistant who can’t take her eyes off her mobile long enough to make human contact to _collect_ me without any explanation?” Molly batted her hair out of her face. 

 

            Mycroft stared at Molly for a few seconds without deigning to answer, then turned his gaze to Irene.  “You are strangely quiet, Ms. Adler.”

 

            Irene gave a throaty laugh.  “My mousy can take care of herself, as you are quickly learning.”

            “Can you?” Mycroft looked pointedly at Irene’s bruises and the stitches that had yet to be removed from her face.  “Is it really fair to prey upon Dr. Hooper’s kind and helpful nature?  You should have left England immediately.”  He paused.  “Well, in truth, you should have never returned.  You have no power left.”

 

             “Not so, Mr. Holmes.  I may not be dabbling in the Crown’s secrets, but I have plenty of the Queen’s men on their knees.” Irene grinned wolfishly as she added, “Men of high rank who place personal ruin above the ruin of a nation.  Not everyone has your sense of loyalty to his country.  I have protection where it is needed.  Moran was a fluke.  He saw me by chance, sent a goon after me, and I… _resolved_ the matter.”

 

            “I couldn’t care less about your petty little blackmail – you’ve reduced yourself to an annoying fly, but you are putting Dr. Hooper in danger,” Mycroft ground out.

 

            “Why do you care about Dr. Hooper?” Irene’s smug expression made it clear she knew the answer.

 

            Molly cleared her throat.  “I’m sure he’s only concerned about this Moran getting to me and finding out about Sherlock.”  She narrowed her eyes at the impeccably dressed man and spoke her worst fear.  “I wondered if you would kill me after Sherlock left, to keep his secret.”

 

            Irene laid a hand on Molly’s arm, stroking it softly.  “Oh, no, mousy.  Mycroft can’t ever kill you.  You belong to a sacred group.  Mr. Holmes can barely keep his brother under control as is.  If something happened to you, or the other three, Sherlock would probably go…” Irene motioned an explosion with her slim fingers.  “And picking up the pieces is a bit too messy for the Iceman.”

 

            Annoyance flashed briefly across Mycroft’s face before it smoothed into his usual mask of calm.  “My relationship with Sherlock is not at issue, Ms. Adler.”  He inclined his head toward Molly.  “However, I did make certain…assurances….to my brother before he left that I would keep his companions safe while he dismantled Moriarty’s criminal empire.”

 

            It was not that the words were difficult to understand, but the meaning behind them was.  If she accepted that Sherlock cared about her, that she was on a very short list of people he had asked his brother (whom he despised having contact with) to protect, then it almost made her feelings for him more impossible.  Somehow, in Molly’s mind, it was less pathetic to love a completely lost cause than to love someone who cared about her, but not in that way. 

 

            “If all you wanted from me was to warn me to stay away from Irene, then you have wasted precious time when you could have been furthering your plans for world domination.” Molly tried her best to appear lofty and unconcerned.

 

            “Well, I think you have your answer,” Irene’s grin at Mycroft was all cat eating canary – Molly could practically see the feathers.  Apparently so could Mycroft because he rose, his posture stiff. 

 

            “Remember, Ms. Adler, you are not on any list, so your well-being is not my concern.”  He added icily, “You are an impediment to Dr. Hooper’s safety, and if you put her in any more danger, I won’t hesitate to remove you from the equation.”

 

            He was out the door before Molly could think of a retort with more class than “Bloody arsehole.” She muttered these words regardless, needing to get them out.

 

            “I concur,” Irene’s hand was still on her arm, and was now pulling her down onto her chest.  She stroked Molly’s hair.  “Don’t let him scare you, darling.”

 

            Molly looked up at the fading bruise on Irene’s face and noted that she should remove the stitches from her cheek after breakfast.  “It isn’t me I’m worried about – didn’t you hear I’ve got protection, supplied by Mycroft Holmes, no less.”

 

            With gentle, slim fingers, Irene worked the tangles out of Molly’s hair.  She hummed softly and whispered, “I am a survivor, mousy.  Only Sherlock Holmes can get the better of me, and that was merely a temporary situation.  I always come out on top.”

 

            “That could have been debated last night,” Molly reached a hand up to grab Irene’s.  She laced her fingers into The Woman’s.  She wasn’t trying to be openly confrontational, but she did want to address their mutual meltdown – Irene into tears, and Molly into a wild desire to overwhelm Irene. 

 

            Immediately, Irene’s humming stopped.  “Yes, that was something of – a surprise.”  Her smile was a guarded one, Molly thought. 

 

            “I don’t know what I want, exactly, but I think you do, and maybe you should tell me what that is, so we can begin some kind of conversation about this.”  Molly gestured to the two of them, then the bed.

 

            A wider, warmer smile came over Irene’s face.  “This,” she repeated Molly’s hand motions, “is new to me as well.  Even with partners, I normally keep things much more formal.”

 

            In the past month, Molly had done some research on the BDSM community.  She had told herself that it was simply out of curiosity over things Irene mentioned, not anything more.  Her journey had started with some trashy novels, then had moved onto blogs, websites, and even a few chat rooms (where she had silently lurked, watching the interaction).   She had even watched a few French movies that had left her both shocked and aroused.  So when Irene said that word formal, Molly asked questioningly, “Do you mean a contract?”

            “Did someone read _50 Shades of Grey_?” Irene laughed a bit dismissively.  “Most of the people I know don’t want anything written down about their proclivities.  However, we do usually make a verbal kink negotiation, make limits and safewords clear.” 

 

            “And roles?” Molly asked.  “I don’t know if I want to be controlled.  I feel like I’ve been restrained my whole life.  I -” She wasn’t sure how to continue. What she had felt last night with Irene, that surge of power and desire to control her, still felt too foreign to completely claim as her own emotion. 

 

             “Yes, I noted your dominant tendencies after you gave me my fourth orgasm on what I believe was your first attempt at oral sex with a woman.”  There was a serious expression on Irene’s face now.  “You had me on the verge of pleading out – something I have never done.”

 

Irene ducked her head in a way that in someone else would have indicated embarrassment.  “There’s something about you that brings out my two rarest qualities – emotion and a desire to submit.”

 

            The quiet admission sent a thrill through Molly that went straight to her groin.  The new Molly decided not to hide this.  “The idea of you submitting to me is the most arousing thought I’ve ever had.”

 

            A perfectly shaped dark brow lifted in a teasing question.  “More arousing than that dream you had?  I heard two names coming from your lips, and I’m fairly certain I know what images were going through your mind.”

 

            Molly couldn’t stop her face from flushing, but she met Irene’s eyes when she answered. “Dreams are simply that.  I am talking about reality, Irene.”  She took a deep breath.  “Sherlock will never love me, especially not in that way.”  Then she added quickly,  “Not that I’m implying we are in love or even working toward love,” she stopped, feeling like the old, unsure Molly again.

 

            “Love is not something I am afraid of,” Irene’s voice was soothing.  “I am not Sherlock Holmes.  But I do give it very sparingly.  I save my love for the exceptional.”

 

            Molly thought Irene must be able to hear her heart beat.

 

            Irene continued.  “You are exceptional, mousy.  I think I’m already over the cliff in this relationship, hurtling toward the ground.”

 

            The new Molly was back, emboldened.  “I’ll catch you.”

 

            “I have no doubt,” Irene grinned, then straightened her shoulders, businesslike.  “We need to return to the question of how this relationship will be conducted, though.”

 

            “Why?” Molly questioned.  “Why do we have to define this?  Why does one of us have to be dominant and the other submissive? Why can’t we just take each other as we are – in each of our fantastically fucked-up states?”

 

            Irene bit the corner of her lip, and Molly saw a vulnerability that surpassed the sight of Irene bloodied and bruised.  This was not fear of physical pain.  “I’m not sure if I can do that.  I like having the borders of my interactions defined.  It makes me feel – confident.”

 

            Molly knew that “confident” was code for “safe,” but she didn’t press Irene on her choice of words.  “You risked your life to make sure that Sherlock didn’t permanently shut off his ability to love and trust.  Surely you can risk your own heart for something that is obviously strong and beautiful?”

 

            “Strong and beautiful,” Irene repeated slowly.  “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?”  She closed her eyes, and Molly had the urge to kiss her eyelids, but held herself back.  Irene clearly needed space to think.    

 

            They were both silent for several moments, then Irene finally said, “Can I make a counter-offer to no rules at all?”

 

            “Of course,” Molly exhaled, finding that she had been barely breathing.

 

            Irene sat up a bit straighter.  “I think exploring your dominant side would be exhilarating and empowering for you, and although I have not been submissive in over a decade, I would relish the chance to be under your command.  However, you are new to this, so perhaps I could guide and advise you when we are outside the bedroom….and you could take the lead when we are in it.”

 

            There was a growing throbbing between Molly’s legs.  She was still surprised at how much she wanted to have power over Irene, but she was at least willing to admit it was true.  This seemed a good compromise, but there was a lingering uncertainty.  Did she dare leap this far?  “I think too many rules would squeeze the spontaneity out of whatever it is we have.  I would like this relationship to evolve organically.  What if I want _you_ to take the lead some night?”

 

            Irene smiled, her default expression that screamed unimaginable sexual pleasure.  “I would be more than happy to demonstrate on you what I’d like you to do to me,” she purred. 

 

            “And then I’ll decide whether or not you deserve it,” Molly quipped, shocked at herself as soon as the words had left her mouth.

 

            Irene’s eyes smoldered and her lips formed a knowing curl.  “See?  The Mistress in you is dying to get out.”  She placed her head in Molly’s lap and looked up at her with those icy blue eyes that seemed warmer than Molly had ever seen them.  “And I’d love to know her better.”

 

            It would be easy to get lost in Irene’s sweet expression, so different from her usual ones.  Molly sighed, feeling pleasantly bemused.  How could she refuse the offer to really live, to go beyond all the neat roles she played, to experience a thrill she suspected could be nearly as intense as the one she felt every time Sherlock spoke to her? And who else would ever understand her near obsession with that incredibly gorgeous and absurdly rude man?

 

            “Fine,” Molly traced Irene’s lips with her forefinger, keeping her touch light and teasing.  “We’ll try this.”  She pulled back as she glanced at Irene’s cheek again.  “But before we do anything else I need to take out those stitches.”

 

            Irene followed her into the kitchen, stark naked, yet obviously quite comfortable.  “Good.  They have been itching, and it kills me not to scratch.”

 

            Molly patted one of the chairs and Irene sat down.  The doctor made quick work of the process, then gently rubbed the remaining mark with some scar reducing cream that she had put in her kit after she’d burned herself on the teakettle about eight months ago. 

 

            “Well, now that I’m all patched up and these bruises have faded enough to cover with makeup, why don’t I take you out for a night of fun like you’ve never had?”  Irene caught Molly’s hand.

 

            With a smile, Molly pulled away to put her bag back in the kitchen.  “Or we could stay in and I could give you a night of fun like you’ve never had.”

 

            “Are you scared of fun, mousy?”  Irene gave a small pout.  “I thought you’d gotten over that.”

 

            “That’s Mistress to you from now on, isn’t it?” Molly kept her voice stern even though she was teasing.

 

            Irene immediately sat up straighter, her eyes suddenly downcast, the smile sliding off her face.  “Yes, Mistress, of course.”  She was clearly ready to play the game, to be as perfectly submissive as she could be dominant.

 

            Molly considered The Woman, wondering how dominant it was possible for her to be.  She might be the new Molly, but she was still Molly, and she didn’t know much about being anyone’s Mistress…and she didn’t own anything in leather or latex.  Perhaps the first step to figuring out this new relationship was to settle back and let Irene lead outside of the bedroom, like she had suggested. 

 

            “I need to get to work, Irene,” Molly allowed herself a smile.  “But if you want to plan an evening out for us, then go right ahead.”

 

            Irene sat up on her heels, looking young and eager.  She played with the buttons on Molly’s nightshirt.  “Excellent.  I know just the place.” 

 

            It was distracting to feel Irene’s fingers, even through her shirt fabric.  She glanced down at the print, which was pale yellow with pink flowers.  Her wardrobe was not exactly that of a woman in control, and she was ready for a change.  All her life, she had dressed as if her mother still picked her clothing.  Mostly, this was because the clothes felt safe and comfortable, and no one stared at her breasts or arse when she wore them.  The few times she had stepped out of her comfort zone with tight dresses or low cut blouses had ended in emotional disaster – most notably the Christmas party at Sherlock’s when, ironically, he had only been thinking of Irene.

 

            “You’ll need to pick me up something to wear, I imagine.”  Molly unbuttoned her shirt, letting it fall to the floor, leaving her as bare as Irene.  “Can you do a Sherlock scan and guess these measurements?”

 

            With a small laugh, Irene followed Molly toward the bathroom.  “I’ve already figured those out…Mistress Mousy.”

 

            Molly didn’t try to stop her snort of laughter.  “I’ve read enough to know about bratty subs.  This is going to be a grand adventure isn’t it?”  She had entered the tiled room, and was already stepping into the shower.

 

            “Yes, it is.” Irene had caught up with her.  “Now let me be a _good_ sub and wash you from head to toe.  What do you say?” She was smiling that wicked smile that was somehow directly connected to Molly’s erogenous zones.

 

            Pulling back, Molly nodded.  Irene entered the tub and knelt at Molly’s feet.  The same need to control this confusingly pliant Woman that had filled Molly last night flooded her again.  She lifted one of her small, delicate feet (she knew they were another good feature) and placed it on The Woman’s shoulder. 

 

            Allowing the feeling of power to form an expressionless mask over her face, the slightly cruel mask she knew Irene wanted her to wear, she pushed hard enough to send Irene’s back into the water spout, her heel now on Irene’s chest.  “Then, I’d say the game is a-foot, my whorish little kitten,” she replied.

 

            It was as if desire were a living thing inside of The Woman, spilling out of her.  The scientist in Molly collided with the dreamer and she pondered that if energy was neither created nor destroyed, then she was both feeling and seeing Irene’s need.  The Woman was in frantic vibration, waves of sexual energy pulsing from her.  Molly could tell that she wanted to stand, that she wanted to push Molly back, to have her rougher and harder than Moriarty had ever dreamed, but that was subsumed by the greater longing to have Molly control her.  She could always tell from Irene’s tiny gasp that she liked the insulting nickname, just as Molly had known she would.  True to her role, though, Irene stayed in place, not moving a muscle besides her panting chest.

 

            “Turn around,” Molly commanded, pleased that her voice came out cold and clear.  She had been working to channel the way she felt she would want to be dominated by Sherlock, to feel that cold baritone order her to her knees.  This was the closest she would get to her dream – being Sherlock for Irene.  _How twisted is that, Molly Elizabeth Hooper_ a nagging voice started, but the new Molly wasn’t about to give this up.

 

            “Start the water, get it hot enough that it burns just a bit,” Molly heard herself continue, and by the shivers running down Irene’s back, she thought she was doing a damn good job.  No surprise there, she had always been a quick study.

 

            Irene turned the taps, ran her hands under the water and silently adjusted the heat.  After a few minutes, she sat back on her heels, her head bowed. 

 

            “Turn on the shower.” Molly watched Irene pull the nob to start the shower stream.  She was glad she had replaced the old showerhead with a removable one with adjustable, massaging modes.  She leaned forward and adjusted the head so that the water sprayed straight down,

 

            “Now,” Molly handed Irene the bottle of body wash.  “Wash yourself, and don’t forget to scrub those naughty bits, which I am sure are very, very dirty.”

 

            Irene barely suppressed her grin as she took the bottle, opened it, and squeezed the cream colored liquid into her hand.  The advertisement had promised it contained a hint of glitter, and Molly could see the faint sheen as Irene rubbed those long, thin fingers together, then began to rub the sides of her neck, as if giving her self a much-needed massage. 

 

            It became quickly obvious that this task would be torture for both of them.  Molly had not counted on how erotic it would be to watch Irene, her long, dark eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks, as she ran her fingers over her body.  The Woman was already naked, for god’s sake, and still she managed to turn the washing into a strip tease performance worthy of the sex goddess she was.  Her fingers moved slowly, almost hesitantly, over her breasts and down between her legs and she was such a damn good actress that Molly could almost believe she was embarrassed.  Almost.  The way the tips of her white teeth were biting her lower lip, along with the rock hard state of her rosy nipples indicated that she was enjoying every second of this. 

 

Molly was struggling to keep the extent of her growing desire off her face, and she was afraid she might be losing the battle.  She closed her eyes for a second, imagined Sherlock’s unimpressed, aloof stare.  She let the thought of him enter her and felt her mask settle into place again. 

           

            “Stop.” Molly said.  Irene immediately removed her fingers from her thighs, letting her hands fall to her side.  Without another word, Molly pushed Irene up against the tiled wall, rubbing their breasts and hips together as she reached out her arm for the shower head.  She removed it from the mount, and maneuvered Irene back to the center of the tub.  After changing the setting to a pulsating jet of water, Molly ran it over Irene’s body, rinsing the soap from her curves. 

           

            As she neared the apex of Irene’s thighs, The Woman let out a pleading noise.  Molly smiled, a smile she borrowed from Sherlock, cold and calculating.  The sound grew louder and Molly knew Irene knew what she was doing.  She thrust the strong jet against Irene’s clitoris and watched her melt. 

 

            Molly had used this setting on herself, lying down in the tub, getting off to images of Sherlock’s eyes and hands swirling in her mind as the water swirled over her most sensitive zones.  She knew that the stimulation would be intense, almost unbearable.  With a smile, she pressed harder against Irene, who was now moaning so beautifully that Molly couldn’t imagine a more lovely song of surrender.  But if she was going to be true to the new role she had taken on, the Molly-Sherlock hybrid she was creating, then she couldn’t be merciful. 

 

            With the eyes of a scientist and a doctor, she watched until Irene was on the brink, then abruptly pulled away the showerhead, replacing it on the wall, leaving The Woman panting, pouting, and petulant against the cool tiles. 

 

            “On your knees, kitty, and show me what a lovely little whore you are.” Molly was dragging Irene down, guiding her head to the spot that had been throbbing since last night, when she had been too confused and overwhelmed to get off.  “Make me come hard enough and fast enough, and I might consider letting you finish before I go to work.”  She lifted Irene’s chin.  “If you don’t make me happy, I will punish you.”  Her voice was lower than usual, a feminized version of their shared fantasy. 

 

            The orders, the voice in which they were given, and her near-tears frustration spurred Irene to her best work, and she didn’t hesitate to thrust into Molly with three fingers, while her other hand hovered teasingly around Molly’s arse, a slim digit working slowly between her cheeks to caress the puckered skin around her second opening.  Then, dear lord, there was her tongue, which was moving better than the best vibrator Molly had ever had (and she had ordered one from France that was unbelievable) – Irene’s tongue, hard, insistent, and unforgiving, was working fucking magic, and those penetrating thrusts with, uh, four fingers now, had Molly grabbing Irene’s hair and coming so hard she worried fleetingly if she might re-break The Woman’s nose. 

 

            Irene moved her hands to Molly’s hips after she stopped shouting, “ _Fuck yes_ , Irene!”, but she kept gently licking at Molly’s folds, resting her own panting cheeks against Molly’s thigh. 

 

            “You were wonderful, my kitty.” Molly could hardly speak, but she pulled it together.  “Now, wash me off.”

 

            Shaking as she stood, Irene took the soap again and gently washed Molly from head to toe.  She stopped the water on Molly’s command and took a fluffy towel from the rack, drying Molly from head to toe. 

 

            Although she didn’t say a word, Molly could tell that Irene was dying to release the pent-up feelings.  “Would you like to come, pet?”

 

            Looking up from her place on the floor where she was drying Molly’s feet, Irene nodded, her eyes dark with desire

 

            “Well, convince me,” Molly took the towel from her hands and pushed a loose curl behind her ear. 

 

            “Please, Mistress, please let me come,” Irene’s voice was soft, pleading, and food to the dominant desires in Molly. 

 

            Molly laughed.  “No, I think not.”  She turned and left the room.  “Not yet, at any rate,” she called over her shoulder.  She had a wicked thought and stopped in her tracks.  “Crawl to me, my lovely whore, on your hands and knees.  Show me how you move in submission.”

 

            Irene was a sight, slinking forward, looking more like a panther than a housecat.  She came to stop at Molly’s feet, kissing each toe. 

 

            “You please me, Irene,” Molly lifted her, planting a soft kiss on her pouty lips.  She laughed, then tapped the lips with a warning finger.  “But you are not allowed to please yourself until after I get back from work, and only then if I’m feeling generous.”

 

            If Irene had been able to scream, it was clear she would have.  She looked positively mutinous, but she kept quiet, only nodding. 

 

            “You are adorable when you’re mad and powerless, Irene,” Molly kissed her again, her tongue darting between those sweet lips.  It was several minutes before she pulled away.  God, the combination of power and The Woman was addictive. 

             

            “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to be late to work whenever you’re here?” Molly murmured, leaning in to kiss The Woman yet again, who was now, for better or worse, her girlfriend. 

 

 

 

           

           

 

            


	5. There's not enough alcohol for this meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly plans on a night out with Irene. Irene has slightly different plans. Greg gets pissed. John gets pissed in an entirely different way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more I wanted to add, but I wanted to get another chapter up. Enjoy. This is only my second ever fanfic, so I appreciate feedback and gentle guidance!

oOo0oOo – Chapter Five – oOo0oOo

 

            Molly knew there was a spring in her step as she entered the morgue.   Her hair was pulled back in a bun, more tight and no-nonsense than she ever wore.  Her clothes were more fitted and (if she was honest with herself) more fitting to the authority of her position.  Irene had done that, urged her to dress the part of the sexy scientist, then kissed the nape of her neck and told her she was ready for the world. 

           

            It was bloody insane to think that a few days with Irene had changed her so much, but Molly knew The Woman was just the match that had ignited the gasoline-soaked rags of Molly’s old life.  She was more than ready for this change, and she was determined to embrace it.  The taste of power was like a hit of heaven.  Molly didn’t want to come down off this cloud. 

 

            Her work mobile buzzed in her pocket as she was tackling back-logged paperwork.  She took it out absent-mindedly, thinking Mike would announce he was sending more work her way, or perhaps the cow downstairs masquerading as his secretary was going to remind her in that infuriatingly condescending tone that the pathologist still needed to put in her supply orders for the month. 

 

            _Is tonight good for a pint or two?  I’m bringing Mary._  She’d forgot that John had this number, but of course it was the one Sherlock had always texted her on. 

As happy as Molly was that John had found someone, and as much as she wanted to meet this lady who Greg said wouldn’t be scared away by Sherlock, Molly was hesitant to respond.  She had promised a night out with Irene, and it wasn’t like she could take Irene to see John.  He thought Irene was dead, and Molly couldn’t even begin to imagine what John would think if he knew that 1) she was alive, and 2) Molly was sleeping with her.  Actually, she giggled to herself, his head might explode trying to picture it.  He had admitted once, when they were both a bit pissed, that he thought Irene had been a right fit bird. 

 

            Still, she had promised John first, and would it hurt Irene to wait?  If she went right after work, she could still go out with Irene.  She could always ask Mike if it would be ok if she worked a later shift tomorrow.  Her hours were relatively flexible.   She made sure she finished her supply list, sent it to the cow, then called Mike and squared away her hours. 

 

            _I’ll be there!  Is 6 too early?_  Molly pressed send, then switched to her personal phone and Irene’s number.  _Irene, our evening will need to be later.  Meeting John for a pint._

_John Watson?  I would be jealous, except I don’t think he’s your type._   The response came lightening-fast.  Apparently The Woman could text as fast as Sherlock.

_No, he isn’t a tall, dark, sociopathic detective with piercing blue eyes._   Molly couldn’t resist teasing her a bit.

_Ouch.  Am I merely a toy?_ It was amazing how Irene could pout via text.

_You are a toy, but that doesn’t mean you’re a mere distraction.  Stop begging for compliments, kitty._ The thought of gently biting those lips left Molly’s whole body tingling. 

_Consider me reproved.  I am, as always, at your pleasure._   Was Irene’s head bowed in submission while typing this?  Molly liked to imagine so.

_Indeed._ Molly typed the words, a feeling of dominance surging through her.  How had she ever lived without this rush? _Remember that.  And don’t forget to get me something to wear.  Make sure I fit in, but nothing…overly tight or flashy._

_Already accomplished, Mistress.  I do know your style, darling._ The damn Woman was clearly smirking.

John’s reply came as Molly was considering her response to Irene.  _Excellent!  Mary can’t wait to meet you.  Greg is coming, too.  6 at the Bishop._

            Molly groaned.  She had the distinct feeling that John was trying to play matchmaker with her and Greg, and it just wouldn’t work.  Of course, they didn’t know that Sherlock was still alive, so they thought she should move on.  Well, she was, in a way.  Even though Irene liked to make off-handed comments about “preparing” her for Sherlock, Molly had no illusions about her not-so-secret unrequited love.  When Sherlock came back, he was not going to be different.  He was going to be, if anything, worse off from having spent time away from the humanizing effects of John and Mrs. Hudson.  There would be no grand reunion, no sudden declarations of love.  If she wanted any kind of fulfillment, she needed to stick with Irene.  Not that she completely trusted The Woman.  No, she was simply embracing the new Molly, and taking her pleasure where it came instead of being paralyzed with questions and indecision. 

 

            The new Molly worked in a neater fashion than the old Molly, careful not to get any tea (or worse, bloodily fluids) on her clothes, and when her shift ended, she went to the staff showers and hung her clothes on the side of stall while she cleaned herself, steaming a few wrinkles out.  She pulled her hair back in a simple braid, spritzed a bit of perfume from the small bottle she kept in her locker, and appraised herself in the full-length mirror by the door. 

 

There was no doubt that she looked different, more professional, less unsure of herself.  She was wearing a plain black pencil skirt, which was remarkable in itself, as she almost always wore pants (and a bit baggy ones at that).  Her blouse was a silk, deep sky blue with black polka dots.  It had been a gift from her much more fashion-conscious older sister, and this was the first time Molly had put it on.  It had one button at the back of the neck, and fit snuggly across her breasts.  Her shoes were not exactly “fuck me” pumps, but they added a few inches to her height and highlighted the shapely curve of her calf muscles.   She re-applied her minimal makeup (foundation, powder, a bit of blue eyeliner, and lipstick that was somewhere between pink and red).  It was the lipstick Sherlock had noticed, and even though his compliment had been mixed with an insult, it was the shade she continued to favor.   With a small smile, she noted that her style was more Irene than Molly, but she decided that was not a bad thing.  Irene always dressed to kill, and the old Molly, well, she had dressed like prey.  No more. 

 

oOo0oOo

 

The pub was crowed when Molly arrived, so it took her a few moments to spot John at a table by the back wall.  She made her way back, conscious of the glances she got from several men she passed.  These clothes were certainly an ego boost. 

 

When she reached John, she broke into a smile.  He looked happier than she had seen him since before Sherlock’s fall, holding the hand of a blonde woman sitting beside him.  She was genuinely thrilled for him. John Watson was a great man, and he deserved to be happy.  He smiled back at her as he stood to hug her, that ridiculous moustache covering half of his mouth. 

 

“Molly!” He hugged her quickly, then held her at arm’s length.  “You look…different.” He grinned and added, “good different.”

 

“I’d say,” Greg echoed, taking in Molly from head to toe. 

 

Molly ignored the comment, and stuck her hand out to the nearly platinum blonde, who was watching the men eye Molly with an amused smile and a sparkle in her dark blue eyes.  She was obviously intelligent, forward-thinking, and not threatened by the presence of another attractive woman.  “You must be Mary,” Molly said.

 

“Yes,” Mary responded, taking Molly’s hand in a firm grip.  “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”  She patted the empty seat next to her.  “Have a seat.  We’ll send the boys to get more drinks.”

 

The men didn’t argue with Mary’s tone, and Molly sighed into her seat as they disappeared toward the busy bar.  “Thanks.”

 

“It looks like John was mistaken about half of the you and Greg equation,” Mary observed lightly.  “I’d say you’re already in a relationship.”

 

Molly didn’t question Mary’s knowledge.  Just like she was, John was obviously attracted to incredibly clever people.  “It’s complicated, and brand new, so I don’t really want to go into it, but I don’t want to give Greg false hope either.”

 

“Tough one,” Mary nodded as she took a sip of her nearly empty beer.  “I’d say just be yourself.  How he interprets that is on him.”

 

“Good advice,” Molly fought the urge to act like her old self and start shredding the napkin on the table.  She tapped her fingers lightly, then changed the topic.  “So tell me all about you and John.  How did you meet?”

 

“I’m a nurse at John’s A&E.  We meet over a particularly nasty stab wound.”

 

“Well, that’s just like John – he doesn’t let a little blood dampen his powers of seduction,” Molly joked, but she had always marveled at how easily John had obtained girlfriends.  Keeping them with Sherlock around had been another matter, of course.

 

Mary laughed, a throaty, genuine sound that warmed Molly’s heart.  This woman seemed a great fit for John.  “Just so, Molly.  He had barely finished stitching the man up before asking me to coffee.”

 

“And you went?”  Molly gave a Mary a teasing nudge with her elbow.

 

Mary’s face took on a slightly dreamy look.  “I simply couldn’t resist.  There was just something so assured and yet so vulnerable about his request.  I wanted to understand the contradiction, and the man that could contain them.”

 

As Molly considered Mary’s words, she found them to be true.  Whereas Sherlock unraveled mysteries with a pointed focus and rarely varied his behavior, John was a mystery, a riddle.  A wonderfully compassionate soul, a doctor, but he was also a soldier, a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill to save his friends, his country.  He sought the greater good, but thrived on danger.  Maybe the conundrum of John Watson was what pulled Sherlock to him. 

 

They continued their conversation, and with each passing minute, Molly liked Mary better, and by the time the men were heading back with the drinks, they were laughing as if they had been roommates in uni. 

 

“Ah, these women sound like they are conspiring,” John’s smile might have been a bit uneasy.  “Just what stories are you sharing, ladies?”

 

Greg sat down beside Molly and handed her a glass.  “More importantly, are these stories naughty?”

 

Molly could see that policeman was already a bit pissed.  Setting boundaries would be harder because drunk people tended to ignore them anyway.  She thought of Mary’s advice.  “No, nothing naughty.  Just silly.  We were talking about troublesome patients.”

 

“Your patients can’t be much trouble,” Greg leaned in toward Molly.  She could feel his breath, warm and smelling of sweet, thick beer, on the side of her face.  “They’re all dead.”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Molly pulled back, addressing the table rather than Greg in particular.  She continued in a light-hearted tone, “Some people’s sternums can be damned difficult to crack and spread, and don’t get me started on stomach contents.”

 

Greg made a disgusted face and looked away, as Molly had hoped he would.  “Jesus, Molly, sometimes you sound like Sherlock.”

 

The words were off-handed, but as soon as his name was spoken, the atmosphere at the table changed.  Mary was clearly curious, but John’s face had collapsed, his jovial expression fallen into a grim one.  Molly felt the familiar punch in the gut, but she kept herself from frowning. 

 

She tried to think of something to say to fill the silence, but before she could think of anything that would ease the tension, John’s expression changed again.  This time, his face was a war between disbelief, anger, and a touch of lust.  Greg’s held only lust.  Mary, on the other hand, sat back in her chair with the look of someone about to enjoy a three-ring circus. 

 

“My, you are a morose lot,” the slow drawl came from behind Molly, and she felt a moment of panic overtake her.  Slim fingers folded over her shoulder, and Molly quickly considered her options, which were basically to tell the truth, or come up with more lies, quite hastily. 

 

“Ms. Adler,” John found his tongue first.  “What on earth?  You are supposed to be”

 

“Oh, being dead is much too confining a state for me, Dr. Watson,” Irene purred, and without further warning, she sat down in Molly’s lap.

 

Strange how quickly a habit could form, Molly thought, as her arms automatically encircled Irene’s waist before she could stop herself.  Apparently, she was opting for some version of the truth.

 

Both Mary’s and John’s eyebrows went up.  Greg’s nearly disappeared off of his face. 

 

            “Mary Morstan,” Mary held out her hand.  She was clearly not afraid to take charge, and Molly thought all over again that this woman was perfect for John.    

 

            “Irene Adler,” Irene grasped it with a quick smile.  She turned toward Greg.  “And you must be D.I. Lestrade,” her tone lowered, hovering between sultry and threatening as she nodded at him.  “Molly’s mentioned you.”

            “Oh, yeah?” Greg made a gulping sound that Molly was sure Irene was used to hearing from men. 

 

            “She failed to mention what a handsome lad you are, though,” Irene leaned toward him, obviously delighting in the detective’s discomfort. 

 

            Unobtrusively, Molly slid one hand down Irene’s thigh and clutched it warningly.  Irene sat back immediately, but kept the devilish grin. 

 

            John made a few noises that indicated he was trying to form a question.  Mary smiled indulgently, wrapped her hand in his, and said, “So, tell us how you two met.  I’m sure it’s an…amazing story.”

 

            Greg sputtered into his beer.  John nodded, though he choked a little when she said “amazing.”

 

            “Irene and I met at a photography exhibit,” Molly surprised herself when she spoke, lies rolling easily off her tongue.  “My sister dragged me, and I recognized her at once.  We became friends.”

           

            Irene leaned back into Molly’s chest, smug and satisfied.  Molly pondered briefly how she would punish The Woman for this impertinence, but then reminded herself there were more pressing matters at hand.  She moved her fingers, finding the hem of Irene’s skirt and pressing upwards to discover she was wearing lacy-topped thigh-high stockings.   Molly didn’t need to continue to know that there were no knickers. 

 

            “Well, friends at first,” Irene amended, her eyes lighting on Greg, who was now squirming in his seat.  “But Molly’s such a pretty little thing, I just couldn’t leave her be.”

 

            “Maybe you should have,” John finally spoke, and his voice was firm and harsh.  He had recovered from his shock and was moving on to indignation.  “Molly, this woman conspired with Moriarty; she is not a good person-”

 

            “Clearly, Dr. Watson, you haven’t been paying attention.” Irene interrupted.  “As sweet and innocent as Molly is, look at her record:  dating Moriarty while desperately in love with Sherlock.  Now she’s with me, I think we have enough data to conclude a pattern:  Molly is not attracted to _good_.”

 

            “Molly can speak for herself, thank you!” Molly could feel her cheeks flushing as she looked from John to Irene.  She thought of John like an older brother, and she didn’t want to disappoint him.  “John, Irene is alive because Sherlock saved her.  He thought she was worth saving.  And she has changed.  Sherlock is gone, and Irene is not, and she…” Molly paused, unsure of how much she wanted to say.  Irene had forced her hand, and what kind of play this was, Molly didn’t know. “She is important to me.”  Molly finished her sentence with a strong voice, her chin high. 

 

            “Well, that’s good enough for me,” Mary spoke, her hand still holding John’s, her thumb stroking his knuckles.  “I don’t know all the history here, but I’m a firm believer in second chances.”

 

            Although his face indicated he was not convinced, John glanced at the plea in Molly’s eyes, then spoke directly to Irene.  “Fine.  One more chance, but if you hurt Molly, I’ll…”

 

            “Don’t worry,” Irene soothed.  “Mycroft already has me in his crosshairs for that exact reason.”

 

            John seemed to have a moment of confusion, but must have decided that it was simply Mycroft looking after the interests of England, not his supposedly dead brother, because he finally nodded and added, “Then that will make two of us.”

 

            Despite the not-so-veiled threat, Molly considered this interaction to be as civil as a first meeting between the two was likely to go.  She took a deep breath, and then a deep drink of her beer.  

 

            Greg rose unsteadily from his seat beside John.  “I think I’m going to call it a night.  I have work in the morning, and” he didn’t finish his sentence, looking at Irene perched on Molly’s and sighed. 

 

            John immediately offered to help Greg with a cab, seeing how he was weaving rather than standing.  The two headed off to the front door as the women murmured goodbyes. 

 

            “I take it you are The Woman,” Mary turned to Irene.  “John’s written about you, but I’m not sure he captured the essence of you.”

 

            Irene gave a small laugh.  “Am I a disappointment?”

 

            _Good God!_ Molly thought.  _Was it possible for Irene to talk to anyone without flirting?_ Not that she was jealous.  She was definitely not jealous. 

 

            Mary gave Irene a look of warning.  “I don’t play games, Irene.  I’ve heard how you operated in the past, and I sincerely hope that a second chance isn’t wasted on you.  Even though I’ve just met you both, I can already see that Molly is much too good for you.  Molly may be attracted to dangerous people, but that doesn’t mean those relationships are what is best for her.  John cares about Molly, which means I care about Molly.  You had best watch where you step in those Jimmy Choo python skin boots.”

 

            “Ah,” Molly sighed, exasperated as she pushed Irene’s shoulder to the side to face Mary.  “Once again, I am here, and I am an adult, able to make my own decisions.  Why does everyone seem to doubt that?”

 

            “Perhaps it isn’t so much doubting you as it is doubting _her_ ,” Mary responded, her face warm and kind as she looked into Molly’s eyes.  “And, from what John tells me about the way you let Sherlock treat you, you don’t have the best record when it comes to standing up for yourself.”

 

            “Sherlock treated everyone like that,” Molly huffed.  “And I am making changes in my life; I am not the same Molly who was Sherlock Holmes’s personal lab assistant and general fetch and carry girl.”

 

            “I never met Sherlock, and John doesn’t talk much about him.  What I know I’ve gleaned from John’s writings, newspapers, and snippets from Greg and Mrs. Hudson.  However, anyone who would treat you as less than kind is someone I would immediately put at arm’s length.” 

 

            Irene wrapped an arm around Molly’s shoulder and stroked the back of her neck with gentle fingers, knowing how difficult it was for her to hear others talk about the detective.  “Sherlock can’t be learned from anything other than experience, Mary.  Sherlock simply is.”

 

            “Well, I know he somehow managed to inspire undying loyalty in a wide range of people, and hatred in an even wider range.  He must have been quite a man.”  Mary caught sight of John heading back to the table.  “But this isn’t a good time to discuss him.”

 

            John didn’t sit back down when he reached the table.  Instead, he nodded curtly at Irene, then addressed Molly.  “I think we should all call it an evening.  I seem to have developed a blistering headache.”

 

            Molly nodded, unsure of whether or not she was disappointed.  She scooted Irene off her lap and stood to give John a hug.  As they embraced, she whispered, “You aren’t angry with me, are you?”

 

            John hugged her more tightly.  “No, Molly, but I am worried for you.  Promise me you’ll come to me with any trouble.”  He pulled her back to arm’s length, his hands surprisingly strong on her upper arms.  “I mean it.  Anything and you come to me immediately.”

 

            Coming from John, who felt like a big brother, this behavior was not quite as annoying as from Mary or Mycroft.  She nodded her assent, then turned to shake hands with Mary, who sidestepped her outstretched hand and hugged her instead.  Mary smelled like the lime, bergamot, sandalwood, and vanilla of her Clair de Lune perfume, but underneath, there was a scent that Molly couldn’t think of in any other terms except warm.  She smelled warm, like a summer’s day, and that thought didn’t surprise Molly.  Sherlock was all cold ocean and Mary was all warm earth.  How like John to seek out someone who was the opposite of what he had lost.  He was still running from the memory of Sherlock, while Molly was drowning in it. 

            Irene and Mary shook hands, while John tried to ignore the satisfied smirk on Irene’s face. 

 

            “We’ll have to take you out to dinner sometime,” Irene finally caught John’s eye.

 

            He frowned.  “I don’t -”

 

            “Of course,” Mary spoke louder.  “Molly, text us a date, time, and place, and we’ll be there.”

 

            Molly nodded and watched them go.  Irene had sat down in Mary’s empty seat, swinging one red boot clad foot with a lazy grace.  “Are you ready for the real fun to begin?”

 

            “I’m not sure.” Molly felt like she was inside a kaleidoscope.  As soon as she thought she had her bearings, everything shifted.  Her worldview was changing faster than she could keep up with it, and a sense of vulnerability was settling over her, making her want to run home and dive under her covers.   “I think I’m going to go home, Irene.”

 

            A pout started to form on Irene’s wide mouth.  “Don’t take everything so seriously, Molly.  We still have time for an adventure this evening.”

 

            Molly pulled on her coat and headed to the door, trying to think of what she wanted to say to Irene.  Part of her was angry that Irene had forced her to disclose their relationship to John and Greg, but another part of her was relieved that Greg wouldn’t be mislead any longer.  She didn’t want John to think badly of her, and after what Irene had said about her not liking “good,” Molly felt like he must think she was quite a freak. 

 

            Both he and Sherlock had overlooked her relationship with Moriarty, thinking that she was a passive player, that Jim had sought her out only to toy with Sherlock.  And though this was true, Molly had undoubtedly responded to the darkness and rough treatment she had found with Moriarty.  It was the opposite of the indifference she had gotten from Sherlock, and she had loved the carnality of it.  Now, with Irene, she was somewhere in between: attracted to the sensuality of The Woman, and wanting to act like a surrogate of Sherlock, to be that icy presence that sought selfish satisfaction and didn’t feel the need to return it. 

 

           Was all this her though?  Was this new Molly simply a joke?  She really didn’t know anything at this point except that she felt tired and broken, and in need of a good cry.  She kept walking toward the door, unsure whether Irene was following her or not. 

 

 

 

             

 

           

 

 

 

                       

 

 

 

 

 

  

 


	6. Mistress Molly, Reporting For Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tries to go home and cry, but remembers she's done being pathetic. Enter sexy clothes, a fetish club, and some boy toy action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Irene's relationship keeps evolving in my mind, and I never quite know where it will take me, but I was inspired by SoftObsidian74's latest chapter in her Harry Potter fic, "Bound By Duty," and what she had to say about punishment and pleasure. I recommend it as a great read and credit it with Irene's punishment ideas.

oOo0oOo

 

            Molly handed the burly doorman her ticket, which had been left on top of the clothing Irene had laid out for her.  She wasn’t surprised at all that Irene’s idea of restraint did not match her own.  The pants weren’t too bad – they were black leather, thin, soft, and supple.  She had never worn leather, and found it more comfortable than she would have thought.  They did fit like a second skin, with only the allowance of the smallest g-string underneath.  Her top was another matter.  The fabric was a thick silk brocade, the color of honeyed amber, with small black flowers.  There were stays, and snaps, but no strings to tighten the waistline, which was fine for Molly because the waist was already snug enough.  Filmy sleeves fell nearly off her shoulders, and the neckline was cut deep enough that Molly felt justified in her concern that one deep breath might send her nipples flying from their confines. 

 

            Once she had realized that Irene wasn’t going to follow her out of the pub, Molly had made her way home alone, disappointed, angry, and hurt.  What was this between them?  As much as Molly liked to take control, as good as it felt, right then she had just wanted someone to comfort her.  Hadn’t she told Irene that she wasn’t sure about being the dominant one, that she might need guidance?  And yet, she had been angry when Irene had acted so aggressively; she had wanted to punish The Woman and draw comfort from her at the same time.  The more she thought on the night, and indeed all her interactions with Irene, the more confused she became.  At least with Sherlock, Molly had known her place – which was in the shadows, to be summoned only when Sherlock wanted or needed something.  It had been a shitty place to be, but well-defined. 

 

            Tears had been threatening to fall until she had turned on the bedroom light and seen the outfit on the bed.  It was beautiful, and daring, and nothing that Molly would have ever picked for herself.  That silk and leather had reminded Molly of her promise to be a new person.  It was the old Molly who needed to be comforted and reassured.  The new Molly went out and lived, even if living was painful. 

 

            So, she had gone on-line, looking up pictures of hair and make-up appropriate for a night out at a club.  Mentally thanking her sister for having made her daily braid her hair while they were teenagers, Molly had followed the instructions for an elaborate braid that coiled around her head in a look that was somehow both severe and ethereal.  Washing her face clean, she had reapplied her make-up with more attention to the eyes, drawing on heavier liner, dusting her lids with gold eye shadow, and layering her lashes with a thorough coating of mascara.  She painted her lips a darker red, then sprinkled a loose gold-flecked powder over all her exposed skin.  Though the old Molly would have felt exposed and ridiculous, the new Molly summoned her courage and caught a taxi to the address on the ticket. 

 

            Though she was unsure of what to expect, Molly wasn’t too surprised to find the location of the private club was in what looked like an abandoned warehouse.   From her research, she knew that many of these clubs had large dance floors and several side rooms for different activities, which meant they needed a lot of space.   She was also aware that no amount of research was going to prepare her for this experience.

 

            There was a second doorman who gave her a respectful pat down and looked into her small clutch.  He smiled at her and wished her a good evening.  Molly nodded in a way that she hoped wasn’t too nervous, then entered the building.  It immediately widened out into a cavernous room pulsing with music that had a heavy bass.   Many people were dancing, in various stages of dress (or really, undress), and she could see a sign pointing toward a darker area that read “play rooms.” 

 

            Irene would be more likely to be in one of those rooms, if she was even here at all.  Molly’s educated guess was that Irene would continue her plans for the evening, with or without Molly.  She was like Sherlock, in that she needed attention to fully thrive, and this was obviously a place to get attention, of many sorts. 

 

            It was an educational experience to duck in and out of the rooms lining the candlelit hall.  Molly was surprised at how arousing the sight of strangers bound, gagged, splayed, spanked, suspended, and, in one case, strapped to what looked like a gynecologist’s exam table, could be.  Even if some of the individual kinks were not that appealing, the sounds issuing from the participants were, as was the overall sexual tension that emanated from the crowds in each area.  God, if only the people who made adult products could bottle the pheromones surging in this place, they’d make a fortune. 

 

            The hallway was long, but Molly had covered most of the rooms without any sign of Irene.  A few people had approached her, asking if she wanted “to play” in various rooms, and although she had politely declined, she was thinking that this place was a much-needed boost to her ego.  She didn’t need to wait for Sherlock, or even Irene for that matter, to have fun.  Finding willing partners was not as difficult as she had thought.  All she had to do was put on some tight clothing and walk through a club filled with kinky people.  Still, she wanted to find Irene.  They had unfinished business, and though she was as horny as she’d ever been in her life, engaging in sexually-charged play with strangers simply wasn’t in her comfort zone.   

 

            The room at the end of the hall was larger than the rooms off to the sides, Molly discovered as she went through the door.  It was also very crowded.  There was some type of raised platform in the middle of the room, which held two people.  One was a man, bound facing in toward a large X-shaped piece of wood, leather, and steel. His wrists and ankles were shackled to the X, forcing the lines of his well-muscled body into the same shape.  Someone was moving around him, but there were too many people for Molly to see much more.  She moved slowly through the crowd, thankful that her small frame allowed her to squeeze between the tightly packed audience members.  It took several minutes to get a clear view, but when she did, she was hit by both lust and anger.

 

            Though the woman with the riding crop wore a mask, it was definitely Irene, dressed in an unlikely but extremely fetching combination of sheer silk and poured-on latex.  The shiny, black, fluid-looking material encased her long legs and came up to her ribs, stopping just below her breasts, which were not at all covered by the thin layer of white silk that was attempting to pass as a shirt.  With its high ruffled collar and tight sleeves, the blouse would have been suitable for most occasions if it had a matching camisole.  Without one, it managed to strike Molly as more revealing than purely naked flesh.   The whole thing was an obscene parody of the riding outfits worn by incredibly posh people.  Still, the sudden throbbing in her groin reminded Molly that she had always thought that style to be especially sexy.

 

            Her lips were visible, and curled into their habitual, cruel grin as she circled the man.  Molly couldn’t hear what Irene was saying to him, and she was glad of that.  The way his head was thrown back, the way Irene’s right hand, with those perfectly manicured blood red nails, gripped the handle of the riding crop, the way that piece of leather managed to become an extension of her arm as it swung out to connect with the man’s back, buttocks, and thighs, as her left hand twisted into the man’s dark curls, said all Molly needed to hear.    

 

            She felt annoyed that the sight of Irene with someone else aroused her, but she didn’t try to deny that it was true.  Irene was in her element, commanding the attention of the entire room, leaving them breathless for her next movement.   _I had her at my feet,_ Molly marveled.  What had happened to _that_ Irene?  Was she regretting her earlier behavior? 

 

            The man’s groans were becoming louder, with more of an edge, and Molly had a sudden memory of Sherlock, those lush lips tightly compressed as he flailed the body of her former colleague mercilessly, his breath coming in a deep pant at the end.   When he had said, “We’ll start with the riding crop,” and flashed that grin, hadn’t she known then, somewhere in her mind, that the threat of violence, that violence itself, at the hands of someone she was attracted to, was a doorway to her deepest desires?

 

           

“Mistress, _please_ ,” the young man pleaded, his hips thrust backwards, his entire body straining against the bonds that kept him firmly in place despite his struggles. 

 

            “I didn’t give you permission to speak, boy,” the riding crop whistled through the air, giving a satisfying thwack against the man’s buttocks. 

 

            Now, he only whimpered, not trusting himself to speak, but his obedient silence did not make up for the earlier breech in etiquette.  Blows continued to fall, painting his pale skin apple red. 

 

            Molly wanted to stay, but she also wanted to go.  She shifted a bit unsteadily on the ridiculously high-heeled boots Irene had left with her outfit, and her movement apparently caught Irene’s attention, because her head turned, and even with the mask, Molly could see those blue eyes widen. 

 

            After only a second or two, Irene continued as though she had no audience, but Molly could feel the difference.  The Woman was putting on a private show now, one specifically directed at her. 

 

            “You have been an impudent boy, haven’t you?” Irene’s voice was loud and harsh.  “You may speak to answer me.”

 

            “Yes, Mistress,” the man gasped as Irene’s red fingernails left furrows almost the same shade down his back. 

 

            “You dared to think this scene was about you, about your pleasure, when it is, in fact, about the pleasure I _allow_ you to have.”  She traced the marks left by her nails with the end of the riding crop, barely touching the man’s skin, but causing him to shudder violently.

 

            “I am sorry, Mistress,” the man’s voice dripped with sexual need, and his hips were rubbing in a rather suggestive manner against the leather of the X-frame that held him in place.  There was no doubt he was enjoying this, as was most of the crowd, Molly judged from the alternate collective sighs and bated breath. 

 

            “Your apology is not accepted because it is not sincere.  You are still trying to achieve satisfaction without my permission.  Your lack of proper training and restraint forces me to punish you more.”  She turned to a low table on the side of the stage, set down the riding crop, and picked up a thin piece of what looked like bamboo. 

 

            Irene made a few strokes in the air, testing the cane.  She turned back to the man, who was quivering, whether in anticipation or fear, Molly couldn’t tell. 

 

            “Tell me your safe word again, boy,” Irene came to stand behind the man, adopting a steady position.

 

            “Red, Mistress,” his voice came out in a strangled sound.

           

            Molly couldn’t stop the little gasp that issued from her throat when Irene began to beat the man.  The stripes quickly forming on his skin were vicious-looking, and nothing Molly wanted to be a part of.  Without waiting to see the end, Molly turned and worked her way out of the room, back into the cooler, darker hallway. 

 

            She leaned against the wall, trying to sort out the knot of emotion that felt like it was blocking her ability to breathe.  From a certain tightness in her jaw, Molly had seen that Irene was definitely angry, and not at the man she was currently taking it out on.  Irene had wanted Molly to see this, to see how much in control Irene could be. 

 

            But why?  Had she reconsidered her earlier role?  She must have, because it felt like Irene had been trying to punish Molly in one way or another since she had shown up at the pub.  Molly had once read that all behavior was either motivated by love or fear.  Was Irene afraid?  Was this her version of running away?  It was true that Molly had not thought it in Irene’s nature to submit, and she had been shocked though pleased to see that behavior.  Still, this was all new to her, and Molly’s hold on dominance was tentative at best, and the power she had was only there because Irene allowed her to have it.

 

            Did tonight’s display mean that Irene wanted to control Molly?  Molly hoped not.  She was terrified at the thought of submitting to Irene.  Hadn’t she been submitting her whole life?  Hadn’t that path made her the timid, mousy thing she had come to despise?  If she gave herself over completely to someone like Irene, would she disappear altogether? 

 

            People began to file past her, out of the room, murmuring their enjoyment of the scene.  So, it must be over, Molly thought.  Did she want to go back inside?  _No, no, no!_ screamed the old Molly.  The new Molly was hesitant as well.  She had come here to confront Irene, but her sense of purpose was flagging, as was her self-confidence.  It would not do to approach Irene from a weakened stance. 

 

            The decision was taken out of her hands in the next moment when Irene came through the door, her glance immediately falling on Molly.

 

            “So, my little mousy found her way to the lion’s den, did she?”  Irene’s taunting tone indicated that she was quite pleased with herself.

 

Molly stood straighter.  They were the same height, about 1.6 meters, but Molly’s heels were a hair taller than Irene’s.  Maybe she was giving Irene too much credit.  Molly needed to focus on what she knew Irene desired.  The power was here, pulsing between the two of them.  Molly just needed to be brave enough to seize it and not let it go. 

 

Quickly, without allowing her brain to dissuade her, Molly pushed Irene against the wall, keeping her hips, knees, and feet in place with her own.  Irene smelled like honey and sex and a hint of sweat from her exertions on stage.  Her frame was warm and surprisingly pliant against Molly’s own. 

 

With one hand pushing Irene’s shoulder into the wall, Molly used the other to gently rub The Woman’s nipple through the sheer white silk.  “My whorish kitten, you have gravely disappointed me.” 

 

Irene’s eyes flashed with conflicting emotions, but Molly could see the desire to submit was there, though Irene was fighting it. 

 

“You thought you were putting on a show of what you would like to do to me,” Molly whispered into The Woman’s ear, pleased to feel her shiver.  “But we both know that it was really what you want _me_ to do to _you_.”

 

That wide mouth opened to protest, but Molly moved her hand from Irene’s breast to her lips with lightening speed.  “Hush.  We both know you long to be punished.  It might scare you, but the truth is, you didn’t risk your life to save Sherlock’s ability to love.  You went to Karachi in hopes that Sherlock would not only save you, but put you in your place all over again.  You never loved him as much as when he figured you out and tossed you aside.”

 

Panic was now evident throughout Irene’s entire body.  Her lips moved against Molly’s fingers, and Molly dropped her hand to Irene’s throat and squeezed just enough to threaten.  “I didn’t say you could speak, kitten.”

 

Even to Molly’s ears, her voice was frighteningly cold.  Her words were a sword, and she had nearly eviscerated The Woman.  What she said next needed to deliver the death blow, the one that would put Irene in her place and keep her there. 

 

            “I don’t know if there are enough punishments in the world to make up for your behavior tonight.  You were a jealous harridan, taking out your anger on other people instead of submitting to me as you should have.  If you think that you can get your satisfaction from beating men, then I would remind you that you sought me out.  You want the way I make you feel, because only two people in the entire world make you want to submit, and you can’t have the other one.”

 

            Molly tightened her grip, pressed a bit harder into Irene’s throat.  “And that’s fine.  I understand wanting him.  But if you are going to be with me, then you will be with ME, and you will recognize my authority.”

 

            Irene nodded as well as she could against Molly’s hand, her eyes still icy blue, but somehow darker and warmer now. 

 

            “Excellent,” Molly let her hold loosen, massaging Irene’s slightly reddened skin.  “Now, you have a choice.”

           

            The Woman was silent, but listening intently, her eyes daring to sparkle. 

 

            “You can come home with me now, where you will be punished immediately, or you can go and we will end whatever this is between us.  I am not playing games any longer, Irene.  You may have perfected your power plays over the years, but they will not work on me because I know the real you.  I’ve seen the part you kept hidden, and if we continue this relationship you will be my toy, not the other way around.”

 

            A small sound issued from Irene and Molly smirked.  “Go ahead.  I give you permission to speak.”

 

            “Mistress,” Irene’ voice was throaty, and the irony of The Woman speaking these words after so soon having forced them from the throat of another was not lost on Molly.  “I was, I am…confused.  I thought you wanted to be dominated, but were afraid of it, so I thought if I showed that behavior – which you have reacted to positively in the past – you would feel free to submit.”

            Molly sighed.  What Irene said was true.  This relationship had been confusing.  Until now.  It was time to clarify the situation.  “Irene, you are right that I responded to you in that way when we first met.  But I’ve made some major changes in my life.  Your submission was the catalyst for those changes, and I can assure you that I am ready, willing, and able to take control of my life and our relationship.  If you have decided that you can’t handle that, walk away now and don’t look back.”

 

            Irene was perfectly motionless under Molly, and she took this as The Woman’s assent.  “Now, you’ve just spent a good deal of time showing people here how in control you are.  I think the perfect punishment is to take that control away.”

 

            The look that crossed Irene’s face was the closest to fear Molly had ever seen on her.   “I – this is my livelihood,” she protested.

 

            “No, this is your entertainment.  That’s why you’re wearing this,” Molly ran a finger under the side of Irene’s mask, brushing her cheekbone.  “Your livelihood is in private homes and much more exclusive clubs than this.   Your real clients wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.  You came here to shock me, Irene, but it didn’t work.  You only annoyed me.”

           

            “What would you have me do, Mistress?” Irene kept her eyes downcast, but Molly could tell she felt rebellious.  This submission would not come easily. 

 

            “Don’t worry,” Molly nuzzled The Woman’s neck, making her moan softly.  “I’m not going to out you, or even interfere with what you do on your own time.”  She felt Irene relax slightly, then continued.  “But tonight was to be _my_ time, so get on your knees.”

 

            To her credit, Irene complied instantly.  “You will follow me to the door, crawling on your hands and knees like the whorish, disobedient pet you have been.”

 

            Molly turned on her heel and strode toward the club entrance, not bothering to spare a backward glance at The Woman. 

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

            “You are so beautiful when you do what you are told,” Molly spoke softly into Irene’s silky curls, content to cuddle with her on the bed.

 

            “I am glad I please you, Mistress,” Irene grinned. 

 

            Molly looked into Irene’s eyes and saw only sincerity.  It was a strange but welcome experience.  After punishing Irene for the past week, denying her any pleasure (either with Molly or her own hands), forcing her to kneel in the corner, putting her in clothes from H&M instead of vintage Dior, as well as ordering her to clean the flat to Molly’s rather exacting pathologist standards, Molly thought she had seen just about every pout, indignant frown, and look of disgust Irene was capable of making.

 

            Last night, kneeling in her designated spot in the corner of Molly’s bedroom, wearing a pink slip dress made of some cotton/rayon blend (a clothing choice Molly knew to be particularly cruel), Irene had finally broke down.  Molly noticed the shaking shoulders, but refrained from comment until the sobs became audible. 

 

            “Come here, kitten,” Molly kept her voice neutral.  This was what she had been waiting for, but she wanted to handle the situation carefully. 

 

            Irene approached the bed on her hands and knees, the way she always traveled through the flat unless Molly instructed her differently.

 

            “What is wrong?” Molly swung her legs over the bed and pulled Irene’s head into her lap.  “Speak freely.”

 

            “I am scared.  What will I be without power?” Irene’s tears flowed unchecked, soaking Molly’s pajama pants.  Molly smiled at the words, so similar to her own recent thoughts. 

 

            “You will be mine, completely.” Molly raised Irene higher and began kissing the salty liquid from her face.  “I will never hurt you, Irene, only correct you.”

 

            The tears came harder.  Molly cradled Irene’s face, wiping the tears with her thumbs.  It was nearly a futile gesture.  “You told me once that you were not afraid of love, Irene.”

 

            “I lied!” She gasped, choked on a fresh wave of sobs.  “I don’t want you to love me!”

 

            “We have the same feelings of unworthiness, Irene.  The difference is that I’m doing something about mine.  I’ve been facing that evil inner voice, changing my thoughts, becoming stronger.  You have been running from yours.  Just give in.  Let me show you how much I will treasure you.  Surrender, Irene.”

 

            “I don’t know if I can!” She was pleading now, her voice on the edge of hysteria.  “When I was younger, the way I submitted, it wasn’t like this!  It wasn’t…”

 

            “Real?” Molly offered.  She understood.  This last week with Irene, which hadn’t included any actual sex, had been the most intense and erotic time of her life.  She had purposely ignored Irene for the most part, but The Woman’s presence had invaded her mind, reminding her that this relationship was only partially under her control, no matter how dominant she acted. 

 

            Irene nodded, latching onto the term.  “Yes, real.”  She took a few ragged breaths, leaning into Molly’s caresses. 

 

            “Aren’t you done playing?  Don’t you want something to call your own?” Molly added, working to keep the vulnerability from her voice, “Because as much as you are mine, I will be yours.  This is an opposite yet mutual seduction, Irene.”

 

            Her answer was to press her lips to Molly’s.  It was a sweet, earnest kiss, and it held more promise than any other Molly had ever experienced.  She returned the favor, pulling Irene onto the bed, covering The Woman with her lips and fingers.  Their legs were entwined, and though they were both fully clothed, it was less than a minute before they were both gasping from orgasms that had crept upon them and exploded like fireworks on a winter’s night. 

 

            They undressed each other gently, like it was the first time.  Irene unbraided Molly’s hair and Molly pulled out the pins holding The Woman’s chignon in place.  Facing each other, naked, hair unbound, both kneeling on the bed, they stared for several minutes.  Molly couldn’t shake the thought that she was finally seeing the real Irene, the woman behind The Woman.  And what she saw was beautiful, vulnerable, a gift so precious Molly was almost afraid to take it.

 

            Almost, but not quite.  Molly put out her hand, and ran it along Irene’s arm, clasping her wrist and closing the small gap between them.  She lowered Irene onto the pillows and proceeded to kiss every inch of her.  Her lips were not fueled by passion, though passion was there.  The motivation behind Molly’s lips was closer to reverence, an honoring of the offering Irene had made of herself.  She was coming to Molly’s bed in trust, laying herself bare.  Molly wondered if the difference in the feel of Irene beneath her hands had less to do with the exchange of power between them than it had to do with their souls rising to the surface of their flesh and mingling. 

 

            Irene was twisting and moaning as though uncomfortable.  She kept pulling at Molly’s hands, trying to get them to touch her in the harsher way that made her feel safe. 

 

            “We’re not going for safe, tonight, Irene,” Molly said as her lips traced the muscles in Irene’s right calf.  She continued slowly toward her ankle.  “I’m going to make love to you tonight.”

 

            “Why can’t you just fuck me?” Irene groaned.

 

            “Because that isn’t what either of us needs at the moment," Molly had switched to the left foot, and was licking her way back up to the lovely, heart-shaped birthmark on Irene’s inner thigh. "Now, hush!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I cut it off at a vital juncture, but there is a major storm coming my way and I don't know if the internet will be working here soon. I'll post again as soon as I can. Also, if anyone thoughts on how these ladies will sort out their issues, please let me know - I'm always up for collaboration!


	7. Love, love, love...and its aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Molly and Irene's lovemaking session from chapter 6. I did copy a few of the last paragraphs from chapter 6 to the beginning of this chapter to help readers get back into the mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the short chapter, but everyone in my house has been sick, there have been severe storms, I have a stack of student papers to grade, and I just haven't had the time to write. The chapter after this will be longer, and I promise I will finish this story, even if it takes me longer than I would have liked. Thank you to everyone who has commented and given kudos - you make my day, every single one of you!

             Irene was twisting and moaning as though uncomfortable.  She kept pulling at Molly’s hands, trying to get them to touch her in the harsher way that made her feel safe. 

 

            “We’re not going for safe, tonight, Irene,” Molly said as her lips traced the muscles in Irene’s right calf.  She continued slowly toward her ankle.  “I’m going to make love to you tonight.”

 

            “Why can’t you just fuck me?” Irene groaned.

 

            “Because that isn’t what either of us needs at the moment.  Now, hush!”  Molly had switched to the left foot, and was licking her way back up to the lovely, heart-shaped birthmark on Irene’s inner thigh.

 

 Beginning of Chapter 7 proper

 

            Although Irene did not follow the command to hush, Molly forgave her as the noises she began making were much more to Molly’s liking.  They were husky, needy sounds that made Molly want to forget her gentleness.  She took a deep breath against The Woman’s silky, fragrant skin, and steadied herself.  Then she slid two fingers into Irene’s warm, wet channel.  She still marveled at how this woman was so alike and yet so different from her. 

 

             Molly was very familiar with her body.  As a doctor, a scientist, and a woman who had spent most of her adult life looking after her own pleasure, she knew the folds of her labia, the way the skin around her clitoris crinkled, the feel of the ridges inside her vaginal walls.  Irene’s sex was so different from her own – the complete lack of hair was the first and most noticeable contrast.  But beyond that, Molly had found many other differences.  While Molly’s outer lips were wide and plump, Irene’s were thin and elongated, making Molly think of Irene’s long legs.  The Woman’s inner lips were also thin, but wider, almost overlapping.  When moisture gleamed there, Molly had only to run her index finger along the seam to gain entrance.  Irene’s opening was small, and Molly suspected that Irene had not experienced much penetration.  After all, being penetrated was an act she was sure Irene would equate with loss of control.  Irene with a strap-on, on the other hand, was something Molly could easily picture.  That image was so arousing, Molly quickly filed it under her list of things to try in the very near future. 

 

             She pushed two, then three, fingers into The Woman and noted that the ribbing on her vaginal wall felt a bit less distinct than Molly had come to expect from touching herself.  The channel itself, though, was incredibly tight, and Molly wondered if her fingers were causing Irene discomfort – not that Irene was adverse to discomfort.  She was wonderfully wet though, slick with her clear juices that made Molly a bit heady. 

 

              Tasting The Woman was quickly becoming her favorite activity.  Honestly, she liked licking and sucking at Irene better than achieving her own orgasms.  In fact, she became so swollen with desire at the task that a mere twitch of her hips against Irene’s leg gave her a powerful release that she powered through, determined to ride out by pushing her tongue faster against The Woman’s clitoris.  The skin surrounding that precious jewel had more protective creases than Molly’s own.  It was as though Irene’s body was determined not to let anyone in – her physical design was all intricate folds that put Molly in the mind of complicated origami.  Molly had carefully used her fingers and tongue to find passage inward to the prize, and Irene’s sighs, squirms, and supplications made it clear that she was on the right path. 

 

            As much as she liked the idea of simply devouring Irene, that wasn’t what tonight was about.  She slowed herself, kissing softly at Irene, keeping her at a high level of arousal without providing the intensity of stimulation she needed for a proper release.  Molly focused on her right hand, which was now so slippery that she was able to thrust her pinky in beside her other fingers.  Irene moaned deeply at this, and although Molly knew her hands were rather petite, she was shocked to find that by tucking her thumb into her palm and giving a small twist, she was able to slide her entire hand into The Woman’s warmth.  She stilled for a moment, amazed that Irene’s body had let her in like this. 

            “God, Mistress!” Irene’s hips bucked sharply, forcing Molly’s hand still deeper. 

 

            Molly moved her free hand up, gently caressing Irene’s stomach.  “Call me Molly tonight, please.”

 

            Irene’s eyes were shimmering with tears, and her voice came out in a breathy rush.  “Molly.” 

 

            She sighed at Irene’s voice, desperate and needy.  Although she was very pleased with Irene’s receptivity, touching another woman, especially this deeply, was new to her, and she wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.  With her hand in up to her wrist, there wasn’t much room for movement.  Even a slight wiggle of her fingers or a hint of rotation left Irene clasping at the sheets, her face twisted in an expression of divine anguish that would have looked at home in a medieval painting of a martyr.

 

            “Am I hurting you?  Is it too much?”  Molly asked, concerned.  As small as her hand was, the width, even somewhat curled, was larger than what she personally would have considered comfortable. 

                

            “No!” Irene groaned, the word coming from deep within her throat.  Her blue eyes were bright with lust.

 

            At this, Molly redoubled her efforts, lowering her head to kiss the tiny nerve bundle at the top of Irene’s folds.  Carefully, she tongued the crinkles of flesh aside and sucked with a gentle yet steady pressure at the very heart of Irene’s pleasure.  She also began to curve her wrist and moved her fingers as if she were playing the piano.  This combined attack lasted only a few minutes before Irene was shuddering, her walls contracting violently around Molly’s hand, tightening in spasm after spasm.  Instead of screams, Irene’s vocal reactions had been reduced to incoherent sobs. 

 

            And, then caught by surprise, Molly was lost in her own pleasure again, the thrashing of Irene’s knee against her own highly sensitized skin nearly whiting out her vision, leaving her clinging to The Woman like a life raft. 

 

            Slowly, her whole body boneless and languid, Molly crawled up Irene’s body, pulling her into her arms.  She didn’t have words for the gratitude she felt at Irene’s trust or the overpowering sense of safety she felt as she lay tangled with her lover.   Her entire being was filled with an emotion more powerful than she had ever known.  As she nuzzled Irene’s neck, Molly reveled in this moment, where only the two of them seemed to exist.

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

            When Molly woke the next morning, Irene was gone.  She wasn’t terribly surprised that The Woman had felt the need to retreat.  Molly herself was a bit shaken from the intensity of their lovemaking.  And it had certainly been _love_ making.  If she was honest with herself, which the new Molly was striving to be, she had to admit that she was falling in love with Irene.  To a woman who had only had three quasi-serious relationships since the age of eighteen, that in itself was terrifying, not to mention adding the element of a D/s relationship to the mix.  

 

             Oh, and the fact that her lover was of the criminal element.  Irene might not be blackmailing the government any longer, but she was still finding out what powerful people liked and using that for her profit.  Not exactly a safe occupation, though Molly knew Irene could take care of herself.  But the point was that Molly wanted to take care of Irene now, she wanted to make sure Irene never incurred another bruise on her beautiful face. 

 

            Of course, that thought led Molly down another path, a treacherous one.  What if Irene became bored with the more emotional and mental style of Molly’s dominance?  What if she wanted Molly to hit her, to whip her?  To inflict pain on her in the myriad ways The Woman knew like she knew the back of her hand connecting with a client’s flesh? Molly wasn’t sure that she could do that.  Maybe a light spanking, done in a playful manner, but more than that?  Using a riding crop like Irene had the other night?  Although there was a deep, dark part of Molly that got aroused at the thought of Sherlock using such an implement on _her_ , Molly didn’t know if she could hit her lover, even if Irene wanted her to.

 

            Even though she could understand why Irene left, she couldn’t dismiss the fact that it hurt not to have The Woman beside her when she woke, and that this game playing Irene was engaging in needed to stop, but what more could she do to let Irene know she was serious about this relationship?  Chasing her wouldn’t work, and Molly didn’t intend to do that. 

 

            Feeling a bit confused, Molly got up and prepared for work.  She was grateful that she was working later in the day because she could take her time drinking her coffee and sorting out the conflicting emotions swirling in her mind.  She wanted to have some idea of how she planned to proceed before she saw Irene again. 

 

            She was staring at the tiny chip in her coffee cup when her mobile buzzed on the edge of the table.  Hoping it was Irene, with some cheeky statement that would make her grin, Molly reached out and picked it up.  The message was not from Irene, though, but Mary. 

 

            _John wanted me to check on you without “checking on you” – his words, so can we have lunch?_

The thought of Mary’s calm, accepting, and very astute manner made Molly feel better.  It would be nice to have someone to talk to about her concerns.   _It will have to be more like an early supper – I don’t go in to work until noon._

_That’s fine by me.  Would the St. Bart’s café be easiest?_

_Yes.  The food is passable.  At least they have a decent salad bar._ Molly usually avoided the hot items like chips or soups because they seemed too heavy in her stomach when she returned to the lab or the morgue. 

 

            _Great.  I’ll see you around 5:00?_

Molly typed her reply and then poured some more coffee into her cup.  It would be good to get outside of her head on this issue, and even though she had only just met Mary, she thought they could become great friends.  Also, Mary’s knowledge of Irene was limited, so she wouldn’t be as biased against The Woman as the others.

 

           

 

             

 

           

 

       

 

           

 

 

 

       

 

           

 

 


	8. Everyone loves to give advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is kind, Mycroft is meddlesome, and Irene is absent. Molly gets advice, gets tough, and maybe a tad violent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait between updates, but this chapter is longer, packed with plenty of plot, and I've already started on the next one. It does end on a bit of a cliff-hanger, and, as always, I am open to suggestions. Thank you to everyone who has commented and cheered me on - you make my day!

oOo0oOo – chapter 8 – oOo0oOo

 

            “And she wasn’t there when you woke up?” Mary put down her forkful of salad.

 

            “In all fairness, she has stayed the night, but she tends to bolt when things get,” Molly paused, trying to find the right word, “profound.”

 

            Mary considered Molly for a long moment. “Are you in love, Molly? Because this sounds like love.” She gave Molly a smile tinged with what could have been sadness. “And if it is love, then it doesn’t really matter what Irene does or doesn’t do – it matters what you are willing to accept in return for her affection.”

 

            The new Molly made a fierce appearance. “No, I won’t live that way. I let Sherlock do whatever he wanted, and I still loved him. I am not going to have that kind of relationship with Irene.” Even in her anger, she kept references to Sherlock in the past tense.

 

            “You think you can stop loving someone just because he or she disappoints you?” Mary raised an eyebrow. “I can tell you that hasn’t worked for John. His feelings for Sherlock haven’t changed, even a year after his fall.”

 

            Molly shook her head, clearing thoughts of two sets of icy blue eyes. “I know I can’t. But I can tell her that I’m done.” Molly stared down at the spinach leaves on her plate.   The thought of not having Irene in her life hurt more than she had expected, maybe even more than losing Sherlock. “I don’t want to make this a matter of false pride,” Molly added, hesitating. “Maybe I’m making too much out of this.”

 

            “There is a difference between false pride and self-preservation,” Mary assured her. “It isn’t wrong to want to protect yourself from a destructive relationship, if that’s what this is.”

 

            Tears formed in the corners of Molly’s eyes. “It isn’t destructive – at least it doesn’t feel like that when she’s with me.”

 

            “I know John wants me to warn you off Irene, to persuade you that she’s too great a risk,” The blonde’s expression hardened. “But I truly do believe in second chances. It seems to me that both of you are making major life changes, and in a situation like that, there are bound to be bumps. Maybe this is more of a strategic retreat, and less of a flat-out flight.”

 

            Molly had thought along similar lines, but she kept getting caught up on the night at the club. She had already told Irene that she wasn’t going to play games. What kind of precedent did it set if she allowed The Woman to contradict clearly stated orders?

 

            A slender hand touched Molly’s, pulling her out of the reverie. She looked at Mary, surprised at the contact. “For what the advice of a new friend is worth, I think you should give her a little time, and then have a serious chat when she shows up. Use this time to decide what you really want.”

 

            “Thanks, Mary,” Molly liked this direct woman, though there was a hardness under her surface that made Molly wonder if Mary wasn’t keeping a few secrets of her own. She picked up her tray. “I hate to rush, but I need to get back to work.”

 

            Mary took the tray from her hands and stacked it on her own. “I’ll take care of this. It was good to see you. Next time, we’ll have a night out – you and Irene and me and John.”

 

            The idea that she and Irene might one day have the kind of relationship where they went out with friends was appealing, but felt unrealistic at the moment. Irene could barely behave in private, let alone public, and John despised her.

 

            Molly’s face must have betrayed her thoughts because Mary laughed in that deep, genuine sound she made. “If we both keep them on their leashes, eventually they’ll learn to play nice.”

 

            “That sounds lovely,” Molly murmured, then flushed that maybe Mary thought she meant the imagery of leashes. “Going out as couples, I mean,” she added hastily.

 

            “Yes, I got that,” and Mary’s smile was nearly as smug as Irene’s, leading Molly to give her a quick peck on the cheek as a goodbye and beat a hasty retreat to the morgue, where no one embarrassed her with cheeky, knowing grins.

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

 

            The rest of Molly’s shift was drudgery. There weren’t any pending autopsies, so she caught up on paperwork, and she found several mistakes from the new intern. After fixing all the errors, she had a headache, and she kept glancing at the clock. Irene be damned, right now all she wanted was to go home, pour herself a large glass of wine, and soak in a scalding tub while reading a trashy romance novel – one with more sex scenes than plot.

 

            Still, as she walked in her front door, she found herself holding her breath, hoping to see Irene in some ridiculously skimpy nightie in the armchair by the window. Molly exhaled into her empty, dark flat, not even bothering to check her mobile for messages. She had gone to Irene the night of the club visit. She had told The Woman what she wanted and expected. If Irene couldn’t accept her love, then it was better to cut ties now.

 

            Molly turned on her laptop and poured her wine. She checked her gym’s website and after browsing though the list of classes, signed up for kickboxing. The old Molly had watched those classes through the glass windows, impressed and intrigued by the flying hands and feet, but had thought it was too aggressive for someone like her. The new Molly thought a little aggression might do her a world of good.

 

            She walked into the sunshine yellow bathroom, dug out a few scented candles from under the sink and placed them in the high window and on the back of the toilet. They were hardly used because they were horribly expensive, made with pure sandalwood and vanilla oils and smokeless wicks. Tonight, though, she needed the extra indulgence. Molly lit the candles, ran the water absurdly hot, then turned off the lights and climbed into the tub with her wine glass, flinching as her flesh stung from the heat.  

 

            It was definitely foresight on her part that she had put the wine bottle beside the tub because she finished her first glass too quickly to actually enjoy the taste of the smoky pinot noir. By her third glass, Molly was feeling much more charitable toward Irene (she was always a happy drunk). She was also pondering a new possibility. Was The Woman running so that Molly would punish her more severely when she finally returned? Was this her way of getting Molly to physically reprimand her?

 

            Of course, if she was doing that, then Irene was once again trying to control the situation, and giving her what she wanted was only going to reward bad behavior. If Molly did cross that line, then she would do it on her own terms. She set the wine glass down on the floor, her fingers trailing lightly down her skin as she thought of what it would be like to spank Irene.

 

            Molly closed her eyes, trying to create the scene in her mind. She would have to wear those leather pants, without a doubt. They had made her feel sexy. But not the corset. No, something less revealing on top, with a harsher aesthetic. Maybe a tight, long sleeved coat, with a hint of the militaristic? Why not? This was a fantasy, after all. The new Molly sighed with pleasure. Her hair would be in a double French braid, tucked into a bun at the nape of her neck. And she would get riding boots, not those crazy heels The Woman had picked out. She wouldn’t be much of a dominant if she tripped and broke her nose.

 

What would Irene wear? She wouldn’t be naked – no, that was too comfortable for her. She would be in a short, backless dress, something that could be easily rucked up over her hips. And for once, The Woman would have on knickers. Black, lacy, high-cut knickers that Molly would make sure were soaked through before she ripped them off of Irene’s flesh.

 

           

            As for the instrument of punishment Molly would wield, the Catholic schoolgirl in her thought there was nothing Irene needed more than a good, old-fashioned paddling. Something long, deceptively slender, but made out of a hard wood like oak. Molly wouldn’t need any special furniture – no leather crosses or benches, just The Woman bent over a desk, counting out her strokes, and thanking her Mistress.

 

            Amazingly, Molly found this fantasy had made her wetter than the water. She dipped her fingers into the slick space between her thighs. Her personal lubrication was thicker and slipperier than the bathwater, but just as hot. With her index and middle fingers on either side of her clitoris, she drew lazy circles, and her reaction was so intense that her hips were soon moving, sending water over the edge of the tub, onto the tiled floor. The warmth from the wine and the bath, the image of Irene’s reddening bottom, and the rush of her blood to her lower half caused her fingers to speed up, creating a tight, frantic circuit that had her throwing back her head and moaning her completion only a few seconds later.

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

 

            Molly woke to a fuzzy head and horrible ache in the space between her neck and her left shoulder. Icy rivulets ran over her stomach and hips as she hauled herself upright. She glanced down at the empty wine bottle, which was lying on its side in a small pool of water. Wincing, Molly rubbed her shoulder muscle, then rose to her feet, grabbing onto the towel rack to help her up.   Once she was standing, her head began to pound, and Molly thanked all the saints that yesterday had been the end of her work week.

 

            She debated her options – take a shower, make some very strong tea, and try to get started on the list of things she had hoped to accomplish this weekend, or just drag herself to bed and mope. The old Molly was making a strong argument for moping, but the new Molly had an inner voice like a harpy, and she knew she would get no rest.

 

            It took a good two hours before Molly felt semi-human, but she powered through her aches, found the information she needed on-line, and headed out by mid-morning. Her first stop was her sister’s flat. Laura was surprised to see her, which only reinforced that it had been too long since she had visited.

 

            While her nieces ran in and out of the kitchen, bringing her their toys to admire and their drawings and schoolwork to praise, Molly gathered her courage to discuss Irene with Laura.

 

            Laura was a kind and open-minded person, but Molly was still her baby sister, and sex was never a topic they had discussed.  

 

            “You’ve got a new boyfriend,” Laura grinned before Molly had even opened her mouth. “I can just tell.”

 

            “Not exactly,” Molly stared down at her hands. Why was this so hard? Maybe this was a stupid idea. She didn’t even know if Irene was going to come back. She didn’t need to make announcements about a relationship that might not even continue.

 

            Laura pursed her lips. “Don’t tell me that you are seeing someone new, but you’re still caught up on the memory of that arsehole detective bloke. I know you had a crush on him, but he was-”

 

            “I’m not here to talk about Sherlock,” Molly cut her off with gritted teeth. The need to defend Sherlock was practically hard-wired into her DNA, and she didn’t feel like going ten rounds with her sister who got all of her opinions about the detective from the papers and television shows that had been so quick to denounce him over the whole Richard Brooks/Moriarty affair. Luckily, Molly had an easy way to shut her up. “I’m seeing a woman. A professional dominatrix.”

 

            Shut up was not the right word, Molly decided. It was more like she had magically transformed her older sister into an overgrown fish who could only stare at her with eyes agoggle and mouth agape. The old Molly would have blushed and waited for Laura to recover, but the new Molly pressed her advantage.

 

            “This relationship is new, and I don’t know if it will last, but I’m telling you because it is obviously a big change, and even if things don’t work out with Irene, I think I would try to go out with other women. Maybe the reason why I’ve had such difficulty with men is because I really prefer women.” Molly kept her face neutral, but inside she was shaking, waiting for Laura’s response.

 

            Laura had managed to close her mouth while Molly spoke, but she let it fall open again. “That’s ridiculous, Molly! You were in love with that detective for years! And you’ve had boyfriends you were crazy over!” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being with a woman; one of my best mates Sherri is a lesbian, and there’s a couple who live below us who’ve been together longer than mum and dad were. I just don’t think this is you, Molly! I think you feel like being with a man would somehow disrespect the memory of your saint Sherlock, who by the way, was only a saint in your mind, so you’re taking up with a woman out of loneliness.”

 

            Molly took a breath, reminding herself that Laura hadn’t met the new Molly. “I can see how you would think that, Laura, but it isn’t true. I love Irene – really love her – not just have a stupid, unrequited crush on her! And I need you to accept that.”

 

            The fierceness in her words surprised both the sisters, and Laura leaned back, looking at Molly as if she was seeing her for the first time. Slowly, she nodded. “Fine. If you care about her, I wish you luck, but I’m not even going to touch on the fact that dating someone in the sex trade is probably not a good idea, male or female.”

 

            You just did, Molly thought, but she knew a tentative win with Laura when she saw one. They spent the rest of the visit discussing the girls and their mother, who had apparently developed a bit of an obsession with ordering every product she saw on infomercials. It felt normal to be laughing with her sister over the thought of their mother handing out Sham-Wows, WaxVacs, and Snuggies for Christmas gifts.   Add to that the copious hugs and kisses she received from her nieces, and Molly was glad she had come. She left promising to come back for dinner next week.

 

            Laura walked her to the door, stopping Molly as she turned the knob. “I just want you to be happy, Molly-Lolly.”

 

            Grimacing at her childhood nickname, Molly nonetheless squeezed her sister’s hand. “I know, and that’s what I’m working on.”

 

            “Well,” Laura let out a sigh, as if the words were being torn from her. “If no one wears leather or latex, you can bring this Irene to dinner on Wednesday.”

 

            Molly grinned and hugged Laura tightly. “I don’t know if she’ll come, but I appreciate the invitation.”

 

 

            An hour and a half after leaving her sister’s, Molly was covered in sweat, every muscle in her body aching. Her kick-boxing instructor, a very fit Jamaican woman named Iris, had seemed to take special pleasure in breaking in the new class member. Only fifteen minutes into the workout, Molly had considered simply lying down and dying on the mat. Prideful stubbornness was the only thing keeping her on her feet, and Iris quickly knocked those out from under her as well.

 

            “Ugh,” Molly muttered, picking herself up for what felt like the hundredth time. “Maybe I should stick with swimming and pilates.”

 

            “Now, that’s no way to be,” Iris shook her head, and her thin dredlocks fell perfectly around her face. She extended a hand to Molly - a warm, dry hand, Molly noted. Iris hadn’t even broken a sweat. “You need to rise to the challenge.”

 

            Molly laughed, assuming the slightly bent-kneed loose stance Iris had been pushing her into for the last forty-five minutes. “That’s been the story of the last year of my life.”

 

            “Give me five more minutes of bobbing and weaving,” Iris smiled back, her teeth displaying a slight gap that made her seem slightly more human and less terrifying warrior queen. “Try to dodge my strikes.”

 

            Already exhausted, Molly’s best effort was poor, but she did manage to stay on her feet, which she counted as a victory. The other women in the class gave her congratulatory pats for making it through the first class, and Iris grinned and waved at her as Molly headed to the showers. A few months of thrice weekly classes with Iris, and Molly was sure she either be a deadly force or dead herself.

 

            By the time she was cleaned and changed into a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater, Molly was ready for what she considered to be the most challenging portion of her day so far – shopping for a wardrobe for the new Molly.

 

            Ever since she had let Irene dress her for work, Molly had been thinking of making a more permanent change to her personal style. For the old Molly, loose corduroy trousers and jumpers embroidered with cats were an armor of sorts. If no one was looking at her body, noticing her as a woman, she was allowed to be herself – a weird, almost asexual, little person who was great at her job, but not a threat to anyone else’s ambitions or desires. Dressing in that way took her out of office politics and romances, set her to the side and freed her to run her lab and morgue in peace. Her obvious and pathetic adoration of Sherlock Holmes had only cemented her status as an “odd duck,” as she had overheard more than one colleague mutter.

 

            It wasn’t that Molly wanted to suddenly dress like a vamp, or wear fitted power suits. She liked soft, comfortable clothing, and although she had enjoyed wearing some more constrictive items for last few weeks, she didn’t want to feel like she didn’t have her full range of motion, especially at work.

 

            Three clothing stores – two professional wear, one casual – later, Molly had spent more than she intended, but she had several bags full of simple yet stylish slacks, blouses, and a few skirts and dresses that would help her introduce the new Molly to the world. After all, she couldn’t claim to be in control of her life if she dressed like an eleven year old (and one who was dressed by her mother, at that). She took a taxi home and dropped off her bags.

 

            With a deep breath, she entered the building that was surprisingly close to Baker Street. She pushed away thoughts of Sherlock. This was no place for submission and vulnerability. No, this was where she was getting lessons on how to properly restrain, spank, and whip.   The first lesson of the six-week course she had committed herself to taking. Whether or not Irene returned, whether or not Molly ever used the physical aspect of what she would learn, she had no doubt the mental element would strengthen her.

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

            That night brought another hot bath, and another glass of wine, though Molly limited herself to one large serving. It was closing on the second day, and there was no contact from Irene.   Molly’s mind was a mix of hurt, anger, and worry. How long of a break was too long? Going two days without seeing The Woman wasn’t a big deal normally, but she had left without any word, after Molly had thought they had made real progress toward a serious relationship.

 

            Keeping herself busy all day had helped to keep thoughts of Irene at bay, and Molly was serious about making life changes regardless of her relationship status with The Woman. Still, the romantic part of Molly’s heart wanted Irene to come sweeping in, to beg forgiveness and declare her eternal love. As she cleaned out her closet, making piles for donation and trash, Molly came up with several scenarios that all involved Irene groveling at her feet. For good measure, since they were fantasies anyway, she threw in some thoughts of Sherlock on his knees, that dark head bowed, awaiting her instruction, that beautiful mouth staying silent for once, as she circled him, her paddle swinging at her side.

 

            Molly shifted her weight, her yoga pants suddenly feeling tight. Her lesson today had mostly dealt with different instruments, the various techniques and force required for each one, and the damage they could cause. From her work on violent cases, as well as assisting Sherlock in his “research,” most of this was review for Molly. Her teacher had been impressed with Molly’s knowledge, and had introduced Molly to a few submissives who volunteered for demonstrations at these courses.

 

After indicating that she was especially interested in paddles, the teacher, Mistress Amelia, had showed Molly how to paddle a partner safely, where not to hit, how to move around the different strike zones, and signs of damage or fatigue in the submissive. The submissive, a man named George, didn’t speak much, but Molly could see from his physical reactions that she had done a good job. His obvious pleasure had aroused her, and that had made her feel a bit guilty.  She was doing this to broaden her horizons, to stretch her limits, and to ensure that if she ever did punish Irene physically, that she would be safe. These reasons were sensible, and Molly had thought she could approach paddling a stranger in an almost scientific manner. How wrong she had been. The act of swinging the wooden paddle, with its drilled holes making a whistling sound in the air, had gotten her so wet that she felt sure everyone in the room could smell her desire.

 

If Irene came back, there would definitely be a paddling in her future, but Molly wasn’t sure she wanted to turn that particular act into a punishment. Nothing bothered The Woman more than being ignored and denied sexual release, so there really wasn’t a need to search out additional corrective methods. No, what Molly was learning now would be for pain as pleasure, if Irene would just come back.

 

She gathered her piles into bags and set them next to the door. Her new clothes were already hanging in the closet, and Molly was scrubbed and ready for bed. Although she should have been exhausted from such a full day, instead she felt strangely energized. Sitting in her father’s chair, Molly thought back to what Mary had said – she needed to be absolutely clear on what she wanted.

 

But as much as that sounded like a very mature idea, it was not an easy thing to do. Most people didn’t go into relationships with a five-year plan, or any kind of plan, for that matter. Relationships were organic, growing and changing as a couple got to know one another. Molly had always believed that was the best way to conduct a relationship, but given her track record, maybe it was time to apply some cold logic. Irene had scoffed at writing down rules and limits, but Molly was a very visual learner, and it helped her to see lists on paper. If the new Molly was going to stand a chance, she needed an action plan. She dug out a notebook and got to work.

 

When Molly finally stopped writing, she felt like she when she went to a park after a long day in the morgue. The cool, clean air, the wind on her skin, the feel of the sun on her skin, making some vitally needed vitamin D – that overall experience of relief, clarity, and health. Since Sherlock’s fall, Molly’s mind had become a tangled mess of dirty guilt, loneliness, and embarrassment at the ridiculous way she pined over a man who could never love her the way she wanted him to. The past few months with Irene had added a confused red snarl of lust to that already toxic mix. She had been afraid to see what her mind was hiding, the desires she linked to shame or sin, and didn’t dare look. Until now.

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

            Molly woke to smells that could only have come from her nana’s kitchen. She rolled over, confused. Yes, she was still in her flat, not in her nana’s cottage in County Cork, Ireland. But the scent of a full Irish breakfast was pulling her upright in search of its source. Summers from the age of five to fifteen at her nana’s had given her the ability to distinguish the individual odors of white pudding, black pudding, toasted soda bread, fried tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, along with fried eggs and the sharp, salty, almost burnt smell of crispy bacon.  

 

            By the time she had pulled her hair back and slipped into the yoga pants she had thrown on the floor last night, Molly was wiping a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth. Last night’s dinner had only been an egg salad sandwich. She approached the bedroom door, trying to soothe the nerves she felt. If this was Irene’s way of making up, Molly might just crumble.

 

            “Irene,” Molly began as she swung the door wide.

 

            “Alas, Dr. Hooper, I am not The Woman,” Mycroft Holmes was sitting at her table, which had been draped with a snow-white tablecloth and laden with enough food to feed ten people.   He gave her that icy, not-quite-smile, and gestured at the empty chair across from him. “Please sit. I come in peace.”

 

            “I don’t think you know what peace is, Mr. Holmes,” Molly replied, but she sat down, suppressing a flinch when he leaned forward to pour her a cup of tea, strong and dark. “Two sugars, and just a dash of milk, please.”

 

She took a lemon wedge from a small bowl and squeezed the juice into the fine porcelain cup patterned with pale blue cornflowers once he placed the cup in front of her. _Mycroft will not intimidate me_ , she mentally chanted as she took a deep sip. Molly summoned the memory of Sherlock’s haughtiest expression and did her best impression.

 

“Only one lesson at dominatrix school and you are displaying nerves of steel, Dr. Hooper. Brava.” Mycroft gazed at her with no pretense of a smile now. “New lover, new clothes, new attitude. I do wonder how my dear brother will react to these changes. All his pets off finding love, except for poor Lestrade, of course, but there was no saving that marriage. Apparently the gym teacher is quite a lion in the sack.”

 

Molly helped herself to a slice of soda bread, slathering it thickly with what looked to be freshly churned butter. If she had to listen to this man, she was going to do so on a full stomach.

 

Mycroft tapped his fingers lightly against the table, making only the barest hint of a sound. He was annoyed, but endeavoring to hide it.

 

Silence could be a powerful weapon, she decided. The Holmes’ boys, like Irene and Moriarty, hated not to be the center of attention. She chewed quietly, trying to keep from moaning at the bliss on her tongue.

 

            “Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft snapped after Molly buttered a second slice of toast and began forking some of everything onto her plate.

 

            Molly gave him a look of innocent surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like me to dish you a plate as well?”

 

            The noise that escaped the most powerful man in Britain was one of suppressed exasperation. “I did come here with peaceful intentions, Dr. Hooper.” He took a deep breath and shook his head, more at himself than at her. “However, those are fading fast, I can assure you.”

 

            This breakfast was the best dominance practice she’d ever had, Molly thought as she cut her white and black puddings into quarters and sampled both, not sparing Mycroft a glance. The white variety wasn’t as good as her nana’s, but the black was heavenly. “Mmmm,” Molly finally spoke, taking another sip of tea. “A peaceful man must also be a patient one.”

 

            A slight twitch in his jaw muscle was the only indication of anger Mycroft betrayed, but Molly was certain he was planning her demise in several cleverly untraceable ways. Perhaps she should play just a tad nicer. “Other than to treat me to a breakfast fit for royalty, why exactly are you here, Mr. Holmes?”

 

            “Because, Dr. Hooper, as I informed you at our last visit, I am looking out for your welfare.”

 

            “And you were concerned I wasn’t eating a properly balanced breakfast?” Molly snarked, unable to stop the words from spilling out.

 

            Mycroft did a very genteel version of a growl. “Dr. Hooper, my interest in you is only due to the greater good.” He saw the confused look on her face and continued. “My brother is out in the world, serving the greater good, but he is doing so on the condition that I keep the extremely small number of people who think he is a worthwhile human being safe and sound. Your association with Irene Adler has already proven dangerous, and my sources tell me that she had another altercation with Sebastian Moran’s men last night.”

 

            Molly stood up, her teacup shattering into her plate.

 

            “Oh, I do have your attention now,” Mycroft purred. “She is alive. Actually, Ms. Adler came out ‘on top’ once again. Moran’s man is dead, having been pulled out of the Thames at five o’clock this morning, and Ms. Adler is on a plane to America, where the C.I.A. will protect her, for real this time.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “She asked me to give you this.”

 

            All the dominance Molly had been cultivating over the last few months fled. It took every bit of willpower she possessed to keep from falling to her knees. Her heart, that muscle Sherlock had shredded, that Irene had partially repaired, was now obliterated – blasted into nothingness – a void.

 

            Scenting the blood in the water, Mycroft went in for the kill. “You are something of a mystery, Dr. Hooper. On the surface, all innocence and kitty sweaters, a seemingly virtuous maiden of Spring – sunshine and smiles herself.” He stood, towering over her, tipping her chin to make her witness his cruelty. “And that is how Sherlock sees you. It takes so much to fool my brother, except when he is fooling himself.”

 

            “He doesn’t know you let Moriarty use you,” Mycroft leaned in, nearly brushing her ear with his lips. “That you were so desperate for affection that you came five times in one night at the touch of psychopath, according to the man himself.   But Moriarty was a fool to think that you were nothing to Sherlock. Even if he had known, oh, the buttons he could have pushed.”

 

            Molly bit her lip. She would not rise to bait.

 

            “And of course he has no clue about this dangerous liaison you are engaging in with Ms. Adler, that for The Woman who nearly ripped out the shriveled bit of flesh that passes as my brother’s heart, you have challenged all your beliefs, changed all that Sherlock adores about you.”

 

            “You are insane if you think Sherlock adores me,” Molly whispered, afraid to breathe. If any of this was true….well, it simply couldn’t be.

 

            Mycroft smiled, and it was frightening. “My baby brother thinks you are all that is kind and good. Babbling Molly with her cat and string of never serious boyfriends. Silly, yes, but something he cannot be – open, pure love. He has turned you into the only woman he could ever actually love. And though love is for fools, my brother has the soul of a piratical poet hidden deep inside. What do you think will happen to my brother if his angel falls for The Whore of Babylon?”

 

            Later, when she was pondering just how and when her murder would take place, Molly told herself that it was instinct, and that she didn’t regret it in the slightest.   She made a fist, the kind her father had taught her to use with any men who had bad intentions, and swung as hard as she could.

 

            There was more than one crack.   At least one of her fingers was broken, but, judging by the massive spurting of blood and Mycroft’s initial howl, so was the elder Holmes’ nose.

 

            Mycroft quickly recovered, pulling a napkin from the table to staunch the blood flow.

 

            As angry as she was, Molly pushed him into the chair and wiped at the blood, trying to see the damage she had caused. “It needs to be set,” she said, pushing a bit harder than needed at his face. “The sooner the better.”

 

            “I am ever in your capable hands, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft’s arrogant tone carried through both broken nose and napkin fabric.

 

            She worked quickly, and thought she saw something like grudging respect flash briefly in Mycroft’s eyes. “You know, you don’t have to guard your brother’s heart for him.”

 

            “No one else believes he has one,” Mycroft shrugged, taking the ice pack Molly handed him.

 

            Molly swallowed. “Did you really send Irene away?”

 

            “Despite what you might think, I actually did The Woman a service. Moran is determined to have her head, and my brother isn’t back to deal with Moran yet.”

 

            “Don’t you have multiple black-op teams at your disposal?” Molly huffed. “Send a sniper to kill the fucking bastard.” Molly had no patience for a man who had twice tried to lethally injure her lover.

 

            Mycroft bit back a small laugh. “That is more work than you might think, but truly, the reason I don’t is because there is a plan to how this network is being dismantled. It is a very brilliant, precise plan, and it is Sherlock’s plan. Surely I don’t need to tell you how poorly my brother reacts to having his plans meddled with?”

 

            “Fine,” Molly ground out. “I’ll go to America.”

 

            “Good Lord!” Mycroft moaned. “You are as bad as my brother. He is the cold intellect, you the burning heart, but you are the same – attracted to the instruments of your own destruction. Forget Irene Adler, Dr. Hooper.” He grabbed her arm, forcing her down to look at him. “I am telling you that you can have Sherlock Holmes.”

 

            Time stopped. If there was one thing Molly knew about the annoyingly cloak and dagger Mycroft Holmes, it was that he never promised something he couldn’t deliver.

           

            “What if I don’t want him anymore?” The words burned Molly’s tongue as she spoke them.

 

            Mycroft laughed, a long, loud laugh that scratched at every one of her flayed nerves. “Not want your heart’s desire? Why would you give that up? For the haze of lust you feel for Ms. Adler?”

 

            “It isn’t just lust, Mr. Holmes,” Molly replied angrily. “I don’t expect you to understand what any positive human emotion feels like, since your idea of protecting your brother’s friends is to ruin their lives.”

 

            “Sherlock only functions in a very narrow set of parameters, Dr. Hooper. Too much or too little stimulation shuts him down or sends him running toward addictions. He claims to hate boredom, but he cannot bear change in his personal life. When he returns from saving the world, he will find his best friend, his main source of stability, has found a serious girlfriend, and by my calculations, soon to be fiancée, and is making a life where Sherlock is not his central focus. He will need you to pick up the pieces.”

 

            It was Molly’s turn to laugh, and it was bitter. “Oh, so I get the pieces of Sherlock. I see.”

 

            Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Who better to stitch him up than the woman so devoted that she risked her reputation, job, freedom, and, indeed, her life, to help him die? And has faithfully kept his secret even though it hangs like an albatross of guilt around her neck?”

 

            Wow, all of that was true, but made her sound even more pathetic than her inner voice had managed. “I love Sherlock, yes. And I would do anything for him. But he won’t ever love me in the way I want. I can never “have him,” and I have come to accept that. Sherlock will be upset over John, but any romantic move on my part wouldn’t fix that hurt, it would only force Sherlock to reject me, hurting us both more.” Molly gave Mycroft an incredulous look. “For a man who supposedly runs the affairs of several countries, you know nothing about the affairs of the heart.”

 

            “And for a woman who is supposedly all kinds of empathy, you have no knowledge of your own emotions,” Mycroft countered. “I made the same mistake as Moriarty in thinking you to be simple, beneath my notice. You are as stubbornly blind as Sherlock if you can’t see that my little brother only needs the slightest of nudges to fall into your arms.” He gave her a smile that managed to be smug even with the bruise blossoming across his eye and cheek. “I would be happy to help with the nudging if you will simply fall into line, Dr. Hooper.”

 

            Molly frowned at him. “You can’t pre-fix Sherlock’s life. You don’t even know what he’ll do. Why not have some faith in him? Sherlock is a good man, better than you are giving him credit for.”

            Mycroft rose, his face impassive. “Dr. Hooper, you will see that I am right. I am only afraid that you will realize it too late for your own happiness.”

 

            He was gone before Molly could reply, leaving her clutching Irene’s letter, wondering whether or not it was a good idea to read it. After a few seconds, she stopped pretending that curiosity wouldn’t win out and unfolded the missive.

 

_Dearest Lady,_

_The elder Mr. Holmes has kindly allowed me a moment to explain myself to you, and I am grateful. I was on my way back to you yesterday (with gifts, no less) when I once again encountered Moran’s men. It seems I underestimated him, and although I have corrected the problem temporarily, I know that I am only putting you in danger if I stay. If the bond between us is as strong as I believe, you will know that I cannot do that. I will always remember our first meeting, and all that has followed. I DO love you, my beautiful Molly Hooper. Never doubt that. Perhaps one day we will pick up where we left off, but no matter what happens between now and then, know that I will remain_

_Yours Eternally,_

_Irene Adler_

            Molly didn’t cry, though she wanted to. Instead, she ate the rest of the soda bread with the whole large ramekin of fresh butter, drank what was left of the tea (poured into one of her own mugs), changed into workout clothes and headed to the gym. Her last thought as she locked her apartment door was that Mycroft Holmes had better send someone to clean up the broken glass and blood before she got back.

 

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

            Molly re-read Irene’s letter a dozen times on the tube ride to her gym. She kept it in her pocket while she ran on the treadmill, even though she knew the paper would be damp with sweat before she finished.   Immediately after she had showered, Molly pulled it out again, gazing at the words while sitting on the hard locker room bench in a short, thin towel.

 

            Something about Irene’s mention of their first meeting was not right. Technically, the first time they had met was when Irene had come to Molly’s apartment, uninvited after texting her on the anniversary of Sherlock’s fall. But when The Woman had shown up at The Bishop’s Finger, Molly had lied to her friends and said that they had met at a photography exhibit. Was Irene trying to tell Molly something that Mycroft wouldn’t understand?

 

            There was no doubt that Irene was brilliant and sneaky. Would it really be that hard for her to slip away from the C.I.A or MI-5 or whomever Mycroft had sent to take her to the plane? If she was referencing a photography exhibit, maybe that was where Molly was meant to meet her.

 

            She started to pull out her phone, but then thought better of it. It might be paranoid to think that Mycroft Holmes had bugged her phone or cloned it or whatever spies did with mobiles these days, but she wanted to err on the side of caution. In the juice bar in front of the gym, it was fairly easy to chat up a buff, but slightly dense looking guy and ask to borrow his phone briefly to look up the address where she needed to meet a friend. A quick search showed several photography exhibits in the greater London area, but on the top of the list was a well-known Swedish artist whose work was on display at Photographer’s Gallery. It was the best place to start.

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

            “Attention patrons,” the female voice over the speakers intoned. “The gallery will be closing in fifteen minutes.”

 

            Molly sat on the bench in front of a black and white photo of an East End street from around 1910. The picture looked peaceful, as if taken in the early morning before anyone had come out to crowd the sidewalks or streets. Her chest felt as empty as that street, but much more conflicted. She had been waiting for three hours, had walked through all the rooms multiple times, had ducked into every washroom, but there was no sign of Irene.

 

            She rose and was heading toward the entrance when a shabbily dressed man approached her. If she had been expecting a message from Sherlock, she would have thought perhaps he was one of the homeless network, only slightly more cleanly than most. But the idea of Irene using a man like this as her intermediary seemed unlikely.

            “Miss Molly?” The man rasped, revealing gums that only contained five or so yellowed teeth.

 

            Against her better judgment, Molly nodded.

 

            “Right-o,” the man smiled again, and dug into his threadbare overcoat for a scrap of paper. He handed it to Molly and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Burn it when you are done. The eye is always watching.”

 

            Molly nodded, not sure if the referenced “eye” was Mycroft or a figment of the man’s imagination. It didn’t really matter, she knew. Instead, she handed him a ten pound note, hoping he would eat something soft that wouldn’t crack his remaining teeth, and hurried out onto the busy streets of London.

 

            She walked a few blocks, longing desperately to read the note, but also wanting to find a place that was semi-private to do so.   Across the way was a coffee shop, and she supposed that it was as good a location as any, so she bought a latte, found an empty seat and pretended to read a magazine while carefully pulling out the note and placing it in front of her.   It wasn’t long, but it was enough to make Molly’s heart ache.

 

_Mistress Molly,_

_I know you’ll give the Iceman more than he bargained for, but the danger from Jim’s friend is real. I have not and will not abandon you, but I cannot stay in London for now. As horrific as visiting the Colonies seems, it is the only option at the moment. I will return when it is safe for both of us. It is very likely I will not be able to come back until after our mutual friend cheats death. This is longer than I would like, but keeping you in one piece is my first priority. Please consider me yours, body and soul, though I do not presume to call you mine._

_Love always,_

_Your Woman_

_P.S. If our blue-eyed boy comes home before I do, try to show him the new you. I think you’ll be happy with the results._

            Why was everyone, even Irene, pushing her toward Sherlock? He wasn’t interested, and he wasn’t even in the bloody country.

 

Molly took a drink of the overly sweet mocha latte, not caring that it burned her tongue. The Woman really was gone. This “secret” message that she had gone to so much trouble to leave wasn’t that different from the one Mycroft had given her, but the more Molly thought on the situation, the more she realized how harsh and unfair she was being. Both Mycroft and Irene had said that the danger was real and pressing, that Moran wouldn’t give up. The fact that Mycroft was offering any protection to Irene at all meant that he was serious about trying to keep Molly, if not happy, then at least from a complete breakdown before Sherlock returned.   And she had broken his nose. She took another gulp of her latte. Shit, she really had done that, hadn’t she?

 

After contemplating the gravity of physically assaulting Sherlock’s brother, Molly moved onto the fact that Irene was out of her life, for God knew how long. She was alone, again. But this time, unlike with Sherlock, she knew exactly what she was losing. Her time with Irene had been complicated, but it had also been wonderful. Not just the sex, either, which had been the best of her life. No, Molly had fallen in love, and now the object of her affection was far away, with no timeline for return. She gave a heavy sigh – business as usual, right?

 

_Stop moping_ , the new Molly yelled inside her head. _Irene wrote that she loved you, that she was yours – that’s a fair sight more than you ever heard from Sherlock_! Her love wasn’t destroyed or lost, but it was separated, and Molly wondered how long something so new and fragile would survive under those conditions. She thought of the plan she had made for her relationship with Irene. Now, that would have to be put on hold, indefinitely.

 

_Maybe this is a good thing,_ the voice continued. _If you have growing and changing still to do, you can do it without the influence of Irene or Sherlock – you can be who you want to be, and when either or both of them return, well, you will deal with that when it happens._ As much as Molly wanted to argue, to go back to her apartment and cry for several hours straight, she knew the new Molly was right.  But would she rather be right?  Or be happy? 

 

 

 

           

          

 

           

   

 

 


	9. Assume Crash Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Molly....just when everything was going so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my sounding board at home thinks I should turn this story into a choose your own adventure and offer alternate endings...I can honestly say that I have no idea what is going to happen next, except that it will involve sex. Let me know what you want, and I'll see if I can deliver!

oOo0oOo Chapter 9 oOo0oOo

 

_Yeah you make me merry make me very very happy_

_But obviously, you didn’t want to stick around_

_So I learnt from you_

_…….._

_I can be alone, yeah_

_I can watch a sunset on my own_

“Merry Happy” – Kate Nash

 

            “Molly Hooper! You’ve got a mouth on you!” John paused as he walked by the sofa where Mary and the pathologist were hashing out plans for Mary’s hen party. Apparently, the words “biggest cock you’ll ever see” had caught his attention. “Just where are you planning to take my fiancée?”

 

            “Be a darling and refill my drink,” Mary avoided the question by thrusting her wine glass toward him with a flash of the sexy smile that always distracted him.

 

            Molly laughed. “You’ve got him well-trained,” she teased, holding her glass out to John. “Me too, please.”

 

            John gave a long-suffering sigh and headed to the kitchen.

 

            Mary raised an eyebrow. “And you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

 

            “I have no idea what you mean,” Molly spoke with a sly grin. Mary was one of the few people with whom she felt comfortable discussing her alternative social life.   “To get us back on track, I have this list of possible activities for the party.”

 

She pulled a piece of paper out of the binder she’d placed on the coffee table. “I still want you to be surprised, so these are very general ideas. I’d just like you to rate them in order of what sounds most appealing to you.” She gave a devilish smirk. “Then, you’ll just have to trust me to make it a night you won’t forget.”

 

            “Ah, Molly, you do remember that she has to be at the dress rehearsal the next day, right?” John grimaced slightly.

 

            “So do I, John.” She stood, took her wine glass from him, and wrapped a reassuring arm around him, resting her head on the side of his arm because she didn’t quite make it to his shoulder in her bare feet. “I’ll take good care of your lady, and return her no worse for the wear.”

            Mary stood, snapping her fingers. “I saw an advertisement for a new bar I’d like to try. I think it was in the last issue of _Time Out: London._ Where did I put that?”

 

            “By the nightstand, I think,” John answered.  

 

            Molly felt a quick, sharp pang of envy at their casual, comfortable hominess. She pushed it away immediately. These past ten months had been about building her strength. Being alone didn’t make her weak, in fact, she was more confident than she’d ever been.

 

            “How are you, really, Molly?” John gave her a closer look.

 

            “Why? Do I seem upset?” Molly asked, a bit confused.

 

            John shook his head. “No, but you do seem different, not even the same person I met what seems like a life time ago at that lab in St. Bart’s.”

 

            “People change, John.” Molly shrugged. She didn’t really want to talk about what had motivated those changes. Irene and Sherlock triggered John’s pain, which triggered her guilt.

 

            “Molly, this is a radical change I’m talking about,” John plowed ahead, clearly wanting to get this off his chest. “You dress differently, talk differently,” he gestured at her whole body. “Everything!”

 

            “This isn’t about me, is it John?” Molly asked softly. “It’s the anniversary of Sherlock’s fall next week, and you’re just upset over all changes, even the good ones.”

 

            He didn’t meet her gaze, but the sadness that crept into his eyes confirmed her hypothesis. “Is it good, truly?” He raised his head.

 

            Molly had answered this question many times over the last few months. When it became clear to her boss, her colleagues, her family, and her friends that she had indeed made permanent changes to her appearance, and, more importantly, to her personality, she was deluged by well-meaning conversations that politely hinted that if she was taking any drugs, they would be willing to help her get clean discreetly.

 

            It was amazing to her that it was easier for people to think she was on drugs than to believe that she had examined her own behavior critically and made the appropriate adjustments to ensure a better, happier life. Most of the population wanted to be happy only in their misery, Molly had decided. John wasn’t the average man, but he still needed to know that she was all right, and Molly understood that.

 

            “Is it so wrong that I don’t have to leave the room every time his name is mentioned?” Molly put a hand on John’s cheek.

 

            “It was just so, so…intense,” John countered, taking her hand in his. She was the younger sister he wished he’d had. Nothing could happen to her, especially after watching Sherlock fall. It would be too much. If he had missed such important signs once, he might miss them twice. “You were disappearing before me, Molly, for so long. For God’s sake, you insisted on doing the autopsy! Mike Stamford called me, saying that he’d never seen you look so wild and fierce as when he tried to assign someone else the task.”

 

            She winced, remembering. So much fear and panic, the need to do everything according to plan, to do everything flawlessly. She had almost cracked to pieces a dozen times. “That was a difficult day,” she managed to whisper.

 

           

            “And,” John swallowed as if there were a boulder in his throat, “when I saw you at the funeral, “you were smaller than I remembered. It was like you folded in on yourself, and your pain….it was a mirror of mine. I could barely stand to look at you.”

 

            Molly squeezed his hand. “But you did look at me. And you made it a point to check in with me every week, even though it hurt you,” she added. Guilt was coursing through her. She closed her eyes.

 

            “You seemed to get better slowly, like I did, but then there was Mary, and I didn’t see you as much, and then Irene, and I was confused, and worried,”

 

            “John, Irene isn’t in the picture anymore. You know that,” Molly said the words casually, as she had trained herself to do. Lies and keeping secrets had become second nature, like a ballerina’s routine written into muscle memory.

 

            John shook his sandy blonde head and raised those dark blue eyes, the color of raw, unpolished, lapis lazuli to her own. “I just need to know you are ok.” He breathed. “That I won’t…” his voice trailed off.

 

            Molly wanted to take this man, this brother of her heart, into a great hug and tell him that she would never betray him, that she would never hurt him. But she already had. She had already participated in the deception that had hurt him more than any other pain he’d experienced.

 

“I promise you’ll never have to watch me jump off a building, John,” she struggled to keep her voice light though her heart was sinking like a heavy weight in her chest.

 

            “Did you just wake up one morning and decide to be different?” John had relaxed a bit, but his expression was still puzzled. “How do you do that?”

 

            This was safer territory, and Molly gave him a smile. “It wasn’t overnight, silly.” She gave him a light punch in the arm. “You just have been spacing out your visits more since you’ve shacked up with Mary.”

 

            He blushed. “Still, you must admit that most people don’t undergo such…dramatic transformations.”

 

            “Did you prefer the old me?” Her tone was neutral, non-threatening, curious. “Blushing, girlish, stammering? Falling into an awkward, awed silence before the God that was Sherlock Holmes?”

 

            “I didn’t say that,” John said, remembering how Sherlock had embarrassed Molly at the Christmas party, and, then, miraculously, apologized. He had felt so badly for the sweet pathologist, had wished Sherlock hadn’t been such an oblivious git. A girl as loyal, smart, kind, and pretty as Molly didn’t come along every day. If he had ever entertained the notion that Sherlock could have a significant other, it would have been Molly….but it would have been the old Molly. Sherlock needed people who adored him. This new Molly, he wasn’t sure. Oh, John loved her. He loved how she joked without stuttering, how she told men who hit on her in bars to “piss off,” how she laughed with Mary in a way that almost made him believe that her heart had never been broken. He was proud of her, proud of how strong she had become, as though forged in fire. In many ways, he thought she had recovered the best of them all after Sherlock’s fall.

 

“I think most of the changes are for the better,” he continued slowly. “I just worry you’ve hardened yourself against hope,”

 

Molly laughed. “I used to hope too much, to dream too much.”

 

John’s face fell at her words, as if she’d announced a death. “Is there such a thing as too much hope?”

 

Molly considered her answer, wanting to keep John happy. “Blind, unfounded hope, yes.” She chucked his chin, trying to fix his attitude before Mary came back. “But don’t you worry, I’ve plenty of hope left. Hope that I’ll catch that bouquet at your wedding, and then you’ll be handing me off!”

 

As expected, John took a woman over thirty claiming to want to be married at face value. His smile took up all of his face, and Molly breathed a discrete sigh of relief as Mary re-entered the room with the glossy ad for the karaoke bar she’d spotted. Molly loved her _Glee_ , so she was game.  John was sitting back, apparently satisfied with Molly’s responses, giving glances of mock disapproval as Mary and Molly giggled over lists of strip clubs and other naughty spots.

 

            It was as close to “normal” as Molly had come in several months, and she enjoyed it, sitting on a couch with two people who loved her, and loved each other.

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

 

            Later that night, Molly was at a club, smaller and much more exclusive than the one Irene had invited her to, dressed in black leather pants, with a long-sleeved, high-necked red silk shirt covered with a black and white brocade vest for that extra measure of unavailability. Not an inch of her skin past her wrists or her chin was visible, and that was the way she liked it. She didn’t come here to display herself. She came here to keep her skills in practice, and to release some of the tension that built up from having no sexual outlet besides herself and her extensive line of electronics for almost a year.

 

            There had been no promises of fidelity made with Irene, and Molly honestly didn’t know if monogamy was something The Woman was suited for. Knowing now how sexually charged a scene could be even if there was no actual sex, she could see that this lifestyle pushed the boundaries of what mainstream culture would deem as ‘unfaithful’.   Molly had no desire to sleep with anyone else, but she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed the many invites she had received after finishing the domination course at the mistress school, from both dominants and submissives alike, to attend private parties and clubs. She had accepted every offer, vowing that just because Irene was gone, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t continue to test and explore her desires and abilities. Her polite, calm, take-you-or-leave-you demeanor had subs flocking to her at every event she attended.

 

Molly was overwhelmed at the attention to her inattention. Inwardly, she was saddened by the idea that people only wanted others who were already taken or emotionally unavailable (a fact she knew all too well). Outwardly, she kindly declined long-term offers, but frequently engaged in short scenes at parties, making sure to try everything at least once. She still had little interest in whipping someone with a cane or a bamboo stick, but she enjoyed wielding a paddle, a whip, and even her own hand.

 

In the past ten months, Molly had spent a lot of time in serious thought. At work, she put labels on many things: causes of death, injuries, stomach contents, foreign substances. However, she found that trying to label herself was difficult. Sexuality had never come easily to Molly. First, there was Catholic school, which though populated with mostly kind and well-meaning nuns and priests, still equated sexual desire (especially a woman’s) with sin. She even suspected that she might have unconsciously set herself up for chastity-by-default by always fixing her romantic yearnings on people whom she had no chance of getting. Then, when she had finally had sex, it had disappointed her. It wasn’t that the sex had been bad; it simply hadn’t been the explosion of desire and pleasure she had always imagined it would be. Molly had felt betrayed by science – worried that sex was simply biology, that it would never be the spectacularly romantic experience she dreamed of when she pleasured herself.

 

            There had been a physics student in uni, a girl with spiky purple hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a smile that had made Molly’s stomach flutter. They had kissed and snuggled while working on a project together, but Molly couldn’t move past that. She hadn’t allowed the possibility that she was anything other than simply curious. Now, looking back, Molly knew better. Her attraction to women in general had become obvious to her. She paid more attention to other women, how they moved, how their clothes fell along the lines of their bodies, how their lips curved when they smiled.  Of course, she still wanted to shag Colin Firth within an inch of his life, and the sound of Sherlock’s voice got her wetter than the combined waters of Victoria and Niagara Falls. It seemed to her that Irene had been correct when she had said that people were more sexually fluid than they gave themselves credit for.

           

            But Molly had also discovered that her attraction was less dependent on physical appearance than it was on the power a person exuded. She wanted people who were strong and confident. Thinking back to her experience with Moriarty, she could see now that the reason that sex had been so explosive wasn’t just technique (though God knew the man had it), it was about his lack of inhibition, his absolute assurance that she would do whatever he wanted. His self-confidence had freed her.

 

The more she learned about submissive and dominant behavior, the more she saw scenes acted out, the more she came to realize she had been Sherlock’s emotional submissive. She had given him everything, even when it was unreasonable. She had allowed for no limits, had expected nothing in return.   And that was her choice, just as it was her choice to change. Seeing Irene’s power, she had wanted it for herself, and she had taken it, with excellent, if brief, results.

 

            But she was beginning to doubt that Irene would ever come back, or Sherlock. Mycroft had sent her a few missives from Irene, all rather bland, stating that she was alive and as well as could be expected. The messages didn’t have Irene’s usual naughty flair, and she wondered if Irene regretted their involvement. Molly didn’t regret a thing, and most nights she kept herself from falling into maudlin or self-pitying thoughts.

 

            She took her kick-boxing classes, and had even come in third in the class’s sparring contest. Molly had also joined a swimming team at her gym, and was part of a 100 meter relay race on Saturday afternoons there. It didn’t matter who won, because everyone ended up at the nearest pub together, but Molly felt like part of something, and she was in best shape she’d ever been in her life.

 

            At work, she had finally stopped correcting everyone else’s mistakes, and had instead explained to her interns and colleagues that if they did a job incorrectly, they would have to fix it. She knew there was plenty of mumbling behind her back, although that wasn’t so new. The only difference was that now they were calling her a “cow” or “bitch” instead of “the little pathetic one who follows that arsehole freak detective around.”

 

            Purely for herself, and for the mental exercise, she had written a paper for _The Journal of Clinical Pathology and Forensic Medicine_ about distinguishing between subtle forms of elder abuse and the many injuries in patients over 75 that came from various diseases and disorders. The article had been cited in the subsequent work of others, and Molly had even been invited to speak at an up-coming conference. She had accepted the invitation, and was looking forward to seeing New York City for the first time. There was no doubt that Mycroft knew of this, and she wondered why he hadn’t sent Anthea to let her know that it was unacceptable for her to step foot in America while Irene was there.

 

           

            Tonight, her partner was a shy blonde woman, which was unusual. Most of the submissives who approached her were men, and woman/woman pairings were rare. Molly wasn’t exactly sure why that was, but she considered herself open to all experiences. She talked with the girl, Julia, for few moments, asking her preferences, and they decided on an open-handed, over-the-knee spanking, which was more intimate than Molly usually allowed, but the girl was soft and sweet, and new and nervous, and she reminded Molly of herself from a year ago.

 

This was ok, she told herself, because it was practice, and because if Irene were here, she would be joining in with relish. Julia smelled like flowers, small dainty ones that first bloomed in spring. There was a green grassy scent as well, and Molly couldn’t help but inhale deeply. The girl needed kindness, and although Molly had made dramatic changes to her behavior, she couldn’t and wouldn’t change the core of her personality, which was the desire to be kind, to help others, to make the world a better place. Julia was being brave, stepping out into an unknown to chase her desires, and Molly respected that. It was a good deed to introduce her to this culture in a safe, caring way.

 

            Once she got home, Molly sat in her father’s chair, thinking about the rut she had fallen into. Yes, she was stronger – physically, mentally, and emotionally. But she was alone. She had proven to herself that she could be fine on her own, but the bottom line was that she didn’t _want_ to be alone. Molly was a social creature, and she was at her best when she was with family and friends.

 

            Was it time to finally move on? Waiting for Irene had seemed like the noble thing to do, and the idea that she was unlikely to find anyone who fit with her the way Irene did had kept Molly strong in the face of temptation and loneliness. But when she had stroked Julia’s hair tonight after the spanking, Molly had wanted to end the evening in someone’s arms. She was tired of being alone, and it was time to fix that problem, with or without her favorite sociopaths.

 

oOo0oOo

 

            Although Molly had decided she was going to open herself up to the possibility of a casual relationship, she spent the next two weeks working nearly constant double-shifts. A serious bout of the flu had knocked out what seemed like over half the staff at St. Bart’s, and at one point, Molly was the only person in the morgue neither vomiting nor dead.

 

            Feeling stressed, with a list of at least twenty different tasks facing her down before she could leave, she stole into her small office of the lab on the third floor. This might be her only chance to eat the granola bar she’d thrown in her bag thirty-six hours ago. She sat down, exhaling her annoyance, and picked up the half-empty can of energy drink that she knew better to ingest. Gulping it quickly to try to ignore the chemical taste, Molly immediately chased it with the crumbly trail mix bar. God knows how long that had actually been in her cabinet.

 

            Just as she was gathering the willpower to go back to work, her computer screen flashed, and Molly couldn’t stop her angry groan.

 

            _Ten months, Dr. Hooper. Time to reconsider my offer?_

“Wasn’t a broken nose enough of a ‘no’ for you, Mr. Holmes?” Molly said the words in a loud, crisp tone. She was sure Mycroft could hear her.

 

            _Going once, Dr. Hooper._

“Bugger off!” Molly stood and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

 

            She didn’t return to her office for the rest of the shift. Instead, she ran back and forth from the morgue to the labs, putting the most urgent results into the shared lab computers. By the time a rather green looking colleague arrived to relieve her, Molly was more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life.

 

            Although she normally liked to walk to her flat, as soon as she was outdoors, she caught a taxi and promptly dozed off in the less than ten minutes it took to get home. The cabbie kindly roused her, and even offered to help her inside, but she shook herself awake, paid, and stumbled up the two flights of stairs to her door, thinking how lovely it would be to fall into the nothingness of sleep.

 

            As soon as she entered the apartment, she knew someone was there. “Honestly, Mycroft, for a fucking genius, you certainly can’t take a hint!”

 

            The tall, slender figure moved into the moonlight coming through the window by her father’s armchair, but it was still too dark to see facial features. “And just what hint would my brother need to take from you, Molly?”

 

            That voice. That beautiful, deep baritone, that posh enunciation, all that cutting wit wrapped in silk, it was as wonderful and horrible as Molly had tried to forget. The old Molly wanted to fall to her knees. However, the new Molly was firmly in control, and she simply flicked on the lights, smiling. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

            He was leaner, more muscular; his hair cropped shorter, but the look of annoyance was the same. Sherlock Holmes was scowling at her, and, she, Molly Hooper, didn’t care. Well, at least she wasn’t letting on that she did.

 

            “I know you probably have lots to say, but I’ll absolutely knackered from work, so you can crash on the couch and we’ll talk in the morning. ‘Night, Sherlock.” And with that, she closed the door to her bedroom, and fell, shaking, onto her mattress.

 

            She lay there, with her coat still on, for some time. It was true that she was exhausted, and her body simply wouldn’t allow her to move. There was also the fact that her mind had gotten the equivalent of a shot of cocaine from Sherlock’s return.  Her thoughts were hurtling around her brain, and she understood that Mycroft, in his own smug way, had been trying to warn her that Sherlock was back.

 

            Not that the advance warning would have helped much, she thought. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Sherlock again after two years. Molly would have hoped that all the changes she had made would have left her feeling more powerful, but Sherlock’s icy blue eyes and his lips curled into a grimace still left her ready to do anything – anything.

 

            Those were urges, though. Urges, Molly told herself, that she could push away, tamp down. She might _want_ to give Sherlock any and everything, but that didn’t mean she had to follow through on those desires.  

 

            Apparently, Molly’s sense of time must have been confused by her tired mind, because when her eyes fell on the clock, only two minutes had passed. Two minutes of silence, then the boom of her bedroom door hitting the wall. Turning her head toward the door, she ignored how the look of confused, petulant anger on Sherlock’s face went straight to her groin.

 

            “What did Mycroft _do_ to you?” he demanded, his voice booming louder than the door.

 

            “Not happy to see me, Sherlock?” Molly sighed, making no move to get up. She returned her gaze to the ceiling. “Did you think I’d fall at your feet? Sorry to disappoint you, your worship.”

 

            His face was suddenly in her vision, his arms on either side of her, his knees straddling her. Every part of her wanted to close her eyes, to simply feel him so close, but she looked directly into that icy blue glare. He was scanning her, studying her face so intently that Molly had to laugh. “No, I’m not an imposter. Want proof?”

 

            Fast enough to make her kick-boxing coach proud, Molly hooked her leg around his and rolled them, so she was astride him, and immediately pressed her lips to his. In all her fantasies, Sherlock was the instigator, the one who took the lead, but now, in reality, Molly was the one in charge, and as this might be her one and only chance to snog Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, she was going to make it count.

           

            For three long seconds, Sherlock’s lips were firm and unyielding under the pressure of her own. Then, slowly, his bottom lip relaxed, and Molly slid her tongue across it and into his mouth. She gentle, but thorough, exploring every place, teasing his tongue (oh, that witty, cruel tongue) into sparring with hers. His response was hesitant, suspicious, but after some coaxing, he was taking as active an interest as she was, his hands winding into her hair.

 

            The feel of his fingers against her scalp, sore from the tight bun that had held her hair back for over twelve hours, made her moan, half in pleasure, half in pain. It was a deep, throaty sound, and enough to jolt Sherlock back into his brain. He pulled back, staring at Molly in a combination of horror and shock.

 

            “If that was supposed to be proof of identity, I am afraid you failed the test.  Molly would never have done that,” Sherlock snapped, clearly trying to regain control.

 

            Molly smirked, rolling her hips over the bulge that had formed in his pants.  His body might only be a vehicle, but he could feel the vibration of the road beneath him.  “Don't be coy, Sherlock.  You're the man who takes pulses and notices hitched breaths, and you know that means that I always wanted to do that.” She wagged a finger at him, “And somewhere in that mind palace is the memory of what I feel like pressed up against you, of what my skin tastes like against your lips.”

 

            Sherlock stared at her, his eyes wide, pupils dilated in fear. He made a movement to get up, but Molly pushed back, her thighs tightening around him. She leaned closer, taking a gamble, going with her instinct. “I know you didn’t delete me,” she whispered, letting her lips kiss the curve of his ear as she spoke. “Tell me, Sherlock, do I still taste the same?”

 

            In a blur of motion, he was gone, and Molly was on her back again. A combination of elation, frustrated desire, and exhaustion flooded her. She giggled, a touch of hysteria present as she announced to the empty room, “And round one goes to Molly Elizabeth Hooper!”

 

oOo0oOo

 

 

            Molly slept for fourteen hours. When she woke, she wondered whether she had imagined Sherlock’s return (and her subsequent molestation of him). Either way, she couldn’t deal with that now. She had promised Mike to get back to work as soon as she had rested. After a quick shower, she pulled her hair back into a tight French braid, ignoring the pain in her scalp, and dressed in a pair of tailored grey tweed pants with a black drape-necked shirt that showed off her neck and collarbones while not scooping low enough to present cleavage (not that she had much).

 

            When she walked back into the kitchen to unplug her mobile, she found 34 messages waiting. The first several were from her sister, John, Mary, and Lestrade, and contained variations of: _Sherlock’s alive! Holy shit, Sherlock’s alive! Your bloody crazy detective is alive, Molly! Where are you? Sherlock’s alive!_

There were a few from Mycroft: _What did you do to Sherlock, Dr. Hooper?_ And _You were supposed to put him back together, not break him before he even got to John Watson._

After that came the accusatory ones she had been dreading. Lestrade only wrote, _You knew all along?_ But John’s words were like knives in her gut. _Molly, you knew he was alive? You knew and you didn’t tell me? All those times I cried on your shoulder, like a great fool? And you cried too! How could you?_

_Perhaps we should have lunch,_ was the text that followed those, but it came from Mary. Molly was simply glad that Mary was still talking to her.

 

            Her heart dropped as she read the messages from Mike, _Sorry Molly, but there are some questions about how Sherlock’s death was faked. The hospital board wants you suspended until it’s clear. I’m working to get a paid suspension. I’ll let you know._

Then another from Mycroft. _Don’t worry about the suspension for now, Dr. Hooper. Deal with Sherlock and I’ll fix everything._ How like the elder Holmes to offer redemption wrapped in a threat.

The next few put a broad smile on her face. _Looks like the coast is clear, Mistress Mousy. I’ll be home soon._ And _If you can sort out those Holmes boys before I get back, I’ll be forever in your debt._ Molly couldn’t help but grin. Irene was coming back, and that was definitely a good thing, no matter how complicated the situation was.

 

            The last message was from a new number, but its terse content identified the sender. _Baker Street. Now._

_No worries_ , Molly thought. _I just need to repair every major friendship I have, and figure out what the hell I’m going to do about my livelihood and love life_.  Nothing she couldn't handle.  


	10. Damage Control, Hopefully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tries to figure out what to do next and struggles with honesty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this chapter (it's only about 1/5 or so of the usual length), but I am working on an original story that may actually get published (keep your fingers crossed for me!), and I just wanted to post SOMETHING, so you all know I haven't forgotten or given up on this story. I love it, and I will do it justice.

oOo0oOo Chapter 10 oOo0oOo

 

As her day was now free, given the imminent destruction of her career, Molly did everything except respond to Sherlock’s text. First, she replied to Irene’s message ( _I am counting down the minutes, sweet kitten. Send me your flight information, and I’ll pick you up._ ) Next, she called her sister, talked for an hour, and promised to keep her updated. Molly pondered whether or not to message John and Greg, and opted for silence for the moment. As usual, she completely ignored Mycroft. Instead, she arranged to meet Mary for a light dinner, thankful for the buffer the blonde provided.

 

To use up some time until seeing Mary, she went to the gym and ran ten kilometers to try to ease her agitated mind. She finished with a bit of an endorphin high, but her nerves had returned by the time she was showered and changed back into her street clothes.  

 

            When she arrived at the little cafe right on time, she found Mary was already there, and hurried over to the table. While taking her seat, Molly gave Mary a sideways glance, checking her expression for any hostility.

 

            “It’s okay, Molly, I’m not angry with you,” Mary reassured her.

           

            Molly nodded briefly, unsure of where to start this conversation, so she went with the obvious. “How is John?”

 

            “Nursing a set of bruised knuckles,” Mary bit into her turkey sandwich with surprising nonchalance.

 

            “He punched Sherlock?” Molly saw herself hitting Mycroft, wondering if Sherlock had worn a similar expression, and if John had derived as much pleasure as she had from her own violent outburst on a Holmes.

 

            “Three times,” Mary swallowed and grinned. “It was quite a show.”

 

            “Should I be asking John to go boxing as a pre-emptive measure?” Molly poked her fork into her shepherd’s pie, but didn’t take a bite. The idea of fighting with John made her feel sick to her stomach.

 

            “He is angry with Sherlock, not you, Molly,” Mary gave Molly’s forearm a quick squeeze. “John knows exactly how manipulative Sherlock is, and Sherlock himself made it clear that you were only keeping his secret as he asked, and that by doing so, you helped keep John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and yourself safe. He’s hurt that Sherlock didn’t confide in him, and it will take some time, but the fact that his best friend is alive will win out.”

 

            “I wanted to tell John every day,” Molly fought back tears. She had always hoped for Sherlock’s vindication and triumphant return, but she had pushed aside the reality of how painful it would be.

 

            Mary nodded. “I know it, Molly,” she sighed. “And John knows it too, though he won’t admit it just yet. John loves you like a sister – I daresay more than his _real_ sister.”

 

            “How long before they make up, do you think?” Molly couldn’t imagine Sherlock without John, and she momentarily wondered how Mary would fit into the dynamic.

 

            “Mmm…” Mary chewed thoughtfully on a chip. “I’d say a week at most. More likely three to four days.”

 

            Molly gave another stab at the flaky crust on her plate. “And how long before John will want to see me?”

 

            “This Saturday,” Mary announced definitively.   At Molly’s confused expression, the blonde gave a sly smile and added, “That’s when I’m inviting everyone over for dinner to hash it all out.”

 

            “Does John know this?” Molly pictured broken furniture, outraged neighbors, possible arrests.

 

            Mary’s grin widened and she placed her index finger to her lips. “Mum’s the word, darling.”  

 

            Molly’s expression must have conveyed her thoughts, because Mary patted her hand reassuringly. “John’s hand is rather sore. I think it’s mostly out of his system.

 

            They sat in silence for a few minutes, Molly doing her best to choke down the food she’d ordered. She hated waste, and she knew that she needed to refuel after the workout she’d given herself.

 

            “Interestingly, Sherlock seemed to have trouble speaking of you, and he flinched when John cursed him for dragging you into his schemes.” Mary spoke in a smug, knowing tone. “Nothing else, including several incredibly vulgar and cutting insults, made him flinch, Molly.”

 

            “Oh, really?” Molly avoided eye contact.

 

“Come off it, Molly!” Mary teased. “I know you did something to scare the living shit out of that man, a task John swears is not possible. What did you do?”

 

Molly took a drink of water, choosing her words carefully. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to say until she had come to some type of understanding with both Sherlock and Irene. “I…simply let him know that I wouldn’t be controlled or manipulated by him any longer.”

 

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Mary pursed her lips. “I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

 

            When Molly arrived home, she didn’t know if she was happy or disappointed that Sherlock had not broken into her flat. _Wow, that says volumes, doesn’t it?_ She thought, sure that such behavior couldn’t be healthy.   Stress was running through her, setting all her nerves on fire, making her uncomfortable in her own skin. Keeping still was not an option, so she cleaned the flat with a ferocity she usually reserved for chemical spills.

 

            After every surface was sparkling, every item in a drawer or perfectly placed, she allowed herself a glance at her mobile, which she had purposely turned to silent. There was a forward of a flight number and times from Irene, and it looked like Molly still had a good forty-eight hours before The Woman returned.

 

            Before the web of lies she had woven to protect Sherlock, Molly had considered herself an honest person, uncomfortable with even white lies. Now, whether she liked it or not, lying had become easy for her. With Sherlock back, there was no need for this, and she wanted to reclaim that part of herself. She knew what she needed to do, but she was afraid of what would happen.

 

            _I kissed Sherlock._ She pressed send and waited.


	11. Playing with Fire in the form of Sherlock...Oh, burns so good!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly texts Irene. Sherlock texts Molly. Molly taunts Sherlock. Shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me if you love Irene/Molly. I promise this is not the end of their love, just a complication.

oOo0oOo – Chapter 11 - oOo0oOo

 

            As the minutes slid by with no response from Irene, Molly reminded herself there was a significant time difference, and that Irene was probably sleeping. She poured a glass of wine and went on-line to order a few things she wanted to have on hand for when Irene returned.

Her mobile made the same obscenely erotic moan Sherlock’s had over two years ago at the Christmas party. Molly gathered her bravery and looked.

 

            _Tell me, Mistress, was our pretty detective everything you dreamed of?_

Molly’s breath caught in her throat. Via text, she couldn’t be sure that Irene was teasing her. Still, she opted for honesty. _It felt dangerous,_ she texted, _like water so deep, that once I entered, I’d never make it back to the surface before my oxygen ran out._

_It’s your heart that is in danger, not your lungs._ The reply was prompt, and Molly could imagine the frown on Irene’s pretty face.

_My heart is yours, Irene, if you want it._ She’d done it now, exposed more truth than was wise. _Sherlock wouldn’t know what to do with one._

 

            _Mistress Molly, Sherlock had both our hearts from the moment we met him, long before we fell in love with one another. Part of us will always love him. And if those parts are occasionally physical, what’s the harm?_

_What are you saying? That it’s okay for me to…_ Molly’s fingers hovered over the screen, unsure of what to type. Before she knew it, her thumb had slipped and the message was sent unfinished.

 

            The moaning sound seemed to taunt her. _We made no promises other than love itself, Mistress. I want your happiness as much as my own. Why don’t you take the next few days to decide what and who will bring you the most of it?_

Tears blurred Molly’s view of the screen. _I don’t need time to know I love you, Irene._ Had she fucked up? Being in a scene, practicing domination, had never felt like cheating. Kissing Sherlock, with all the emotion behind it, was different.

_Darling Mistress, I’m not questioning your love, I’m simply stating that mine is unconditional. Hush now, or I’ll think my lady doth protest too much._

Molly was a bit stung, but her conscience promptly reminded her that one is most offended by what is most true. She was protesting her love, while she was actively lusting for Sherlock. But Irene knew how she felt about Sherlock, and Irene had wanted Sherlock just as much. Neither Irene nor Sherlock were normal, so the ‘normal’ rules of relationships couldn’t possibly apply. Not that she was in a relationship with Sherlock.

 

            She texted her goodnights to Irene, and headed to bed. Although she was tired, her mind kept her up, running through a dozen scenarios of what would happen the next time she saw Sherlock. Mycroft had told her that she could have Sherlock, but Molly wasn’t about to give up Irene. Why couldn’t she have her cake and eat it too?

 

            As if on cue, her mobile buzzed on the nightstand.   Molly warily picked it up.

 

            _What about “Baker Street” and “now” is difficult to understand?_

            If she went to him, she would be submitting. She would be letting him inconvenience her, order her around, and cow her again. As much as those words, even typed, thrilled her (because she could hear them, crisp and icy, spoken in that lush baritone), she couldn’t give in. She would lose all the ground she had gained. As a scientist, she knew that a fire needed oxygen to burn, but Sherlock was outside the laws of physics. Starve him of attention, and he would ignite with anger. And an angry Sherlock was somehow easier to handle than an emotionless, distant Sherlock.

 

           _Comprehension isn’t the issue. Your assumption of my compliance is._  Molly couldn’t resist replying.

 

            _Stalemate then?_

_Unless_

_I_

_Come_

_Over_

_And_

_Make_

_You_

_Comply._

Molly stared at the flurry of texts, shivering. She was on the verge of having an orgasm from those words.

 

            _You could always try._ She knew she was waving a red flag at a bull, but her fingers moved of their own volition.

 

            _Molly Hooper, I don’t TRY anything. Expect me in fifteen minutes._

What? Molly felt a bit of panic. She had tried to call his bluff and ended up with having her own called instead. He was coming here, very shortly. Her fingers shook nervously. She needed a plan of action. What would she do? What _should_ she do?

 

            _Well, get out of bed, and get dressed for starters_ , she told herself.   Rising, she took off the thin nightgown she was wearing. As if she were dressing for work, she chose sea foam green bra and knickers, a rose-colored jersey knit dress that caressed rather than clung to her curves, sheer stockings with a hint of sheen, and a pair of tan leather ankle boots. Her hair she pulled back into a quick but tight French braid. She brushed her teeth and applied a thin layer of lip gloss. Trying to keep busy, she opened another bottle of wine, pouring herself a generous glass of cabernet. Then she sat down in her green chair, facing the door.

 

            Sherlock’s estimate was spot-on. Fifteen minutes later, he was opening her door. He filled the entry, looking bigger than she remembered. He shut the door softly, and walked over to her.

           

            Molly felt her breath catch. He was just so damn beautiful! And frightening. She had to admit that her feelings for Sherlock scared her in a way they hadn’t before. When it was an unrequited crush, she felt disappointed, yet safe in the knowledge that she wasn’t risking anything other than her pride, which was long gone from fawning over him. Or, rather, had been gone before she had spent the last year regaining it. Did she want to lose herself after all her hard work?

 

            He stood over her, in that coat with its flipped collar, his curls a bit wild from the wind. She kept still, regarding him silently as he came closer.

 

            “I have been very busy these past two years, Molly, but I don’t think the changes I have wrought are as nearly as dramatic as your own.” Sherlock’s tone was as icy as his eyes.

 

            “And how do my changes concern you?” Molly countered. She took a sip of her wine in what she hoped was a nonchalant fashion.

 

            His nostrils flared slightly. “You told me that we were friends,” the words came through gritted teeth. “Don’t friends merit explanations?”

 

            “Fine,” Molly answered. “I can see how, taken all at once, the differences in my behavior and attire might seem extreme, but no one else is worried about me. John, Mary, Greg, my colleagues, my family – they’ve all accepted it.”

 

            “I’m not _everyone else_ , Molly,” his voice was low, dangerous. “This feigned indifference, this” he gestured at her entire self. “This _cavalier_ attitude to my return; it isn’t you.”

 

            Molly frowned. He was such an arrogant git. “You think you know me, Sherlock? All you know is a Frankenstein’s monster of deductions, patched together. Those pieces might have predicted my behavior in the past, but you never knew my soul. You never came within a million miles of understanding it!”

 

            “Oh?” He arched a dark eyebrow, a smug expression tugging at the corner of his wide mouth. Placing a hand on each arm of her chair, Sherlock lowered his face so close to hers that she could feel his warm breath against her lips. If either of them spoke, their lips would touch. “I think,” he spoke against her mouth, leaving Molly hard-pressed to fight the moans rising in the back of her throat. “That if I wanted to, I could peel back these changes in an instant, that I could have you on your knees before me, begging me to take you, Molly Hooper.”

 

            Molly laughed softly against his lips, suppressing all her desire as ruthlessly as she could. It was time to place all the cards on the table and see who blinked. “Go ahead, Sherlock Holmes, make me yours. I. Dare. You.”

 

            They stared into each other’s eyes, motionless. Molly’s heart was pounding wildly in her chest, but she could see his pupils were dilated, and his breaths were coming more shallowly than normal. This would be it, his breaking point. He could talk big, but he wouldn’t follow through. Sex was too messy, with too much danger of falling prey to that most horrific of monsters, sentiment.   She would have been willing to bet everything she owned that he would leave now.

 

            Slowly, Sherlock pulled back, straightened to his full height. Molly let out the breath she had been holding. “That’s what I thought,” she said quietly. “You’re just a frightened little boy.”

 

            He didn’t respond. Instead, he silently shrugged off his coat, threw it on her coffee table, unbuttoned his sleeves, and rolled them up. Molly swallowed. Surely not. Sherlock turned back to her, took her arm none too gently, and pulled her to her feet. His finger tipped her chin up, and she saw a wolfish grin that nearly made her heart stop beating altogether.

 

            “Shall we begin?” Sherlock’s voice wrapped around her, as good as a caress. “I suggest the safe words of “red” and “yellow.”

 

            Molly knew. She knew he was brilliant, that he could deduce anything. Everything. And yet, somehow, she had thought she could hide her desire to be thoroughly dominated by him. How had she been so foolish? He was raising the stakes. She couldn’t fold now.

 

            “For me? Or for you?” She wasn’t going to back down. If he wanted her, he would have to take her.

 

            He gave a low chuckle, “Oh, Molly, we both know who’ll be submitting tonight. Let’s quit pretending.”

 

            “I’m not the one pretending, Sherlock,” Molly was happy to hear that her voice wasn’t shaking. “You’re only doing this because you’re stubborn and prideful, not because you actually want me.”

 

            For a moment, the smug expression left his face, and Sherlock pulled Molly into his arms, holding her tightly, his lips pressed to her forehead. She relaxed a bit. This type of touch from him, while not common, at least had precedent, and therefore felt safe.

 

            “I told you that I was busy,” Sherlock spoke into her hairline. “And I was, but there were long periods of inactivity, when I was roaming my mind palace, and I kept running into you.”

           

            His fingers stroked her hair, and he continued. “Molly, I told you before I left that I do feel. To have a place in my mind palace is a rare thing for a person. John came in through the front door and took up residence in the parlor, along with half a dozen other rooms. Mrs. Hudson lives in the kitchen. Lestrade is the hallway, annoying me as I come and go. Mycroft sits in the library, which is why I avoid it so assiduously. You, though, you snuck in like a fog. You aren’t in any one place, but whenever I ached for home, I would turn around and find you, standing before me, that sweet smile lighting up your whole face.”

 

            Molly wanted to cry. This whispered confession was worse than the heightened sexual tension. This wasn’t her libido, this was her heart, and it felt like the remnants of it were on fire.

 

            They both pulled back at the same time. His face was unreadable as he took in her expression. “I’m not lying Molly. I’m not playing a game with you. I trusted you with my life, with knowledge that could have killed John. Why can’t you believe I’m sincere?”

 

            “Because you’re Sherlock Holmes,” she answered simply. “You don’t do emotion.”

 

            “And yet, Molly Hooper, here I am.” He smiled at her, an easy, unguarded curve on those beautiful lips. They twitched playfully as he added, “I see that I will need to convince you.”

 

            “Sherlock,” Molly began. “I’ve been seeing someone,”

 

            “Forget him,” he purred, his lips at her ear now. “He’s only a pale imitation of me, I’m sure.”

 

            “Ah,” she tried to protest, but he was kissing her now. Properly kissing her, taking control of her mouth in a way she had only ever dreamed of. He continued in this manner for several minutes, during which Molly’s brain vacated her body. How could someone with such disdain for the physical kiss so bloody well? Guilt rose briefly, but she stuffed it down, arguing that Irene would be doing the same thing in her shoes. Well, not the same thing, exactly…she’d have Sherlock on his knees, pushing his head into her crotch, but surely this was ok? Hadn’t The Woman said as much in her text?

 

            When Sherlock finally stopped for breath, Molly was fully committed. Whatever might happen in the future, she would have this moment. Her eyes must have given her assent, because Sherlock gave her a satisfied smirk.

 

            “Excellent,” he spoke in that low, sexy rumble that went straight to her groin. “Now, it has not escaped me that you want, no,” he paused. “Need, me to take control. I am more than happy to oblige you, Molly.”

 

            He stepped back a few paces, keeping eye contact. Molly felt a thrill so strong, her pelvic muscles contracted. Being Sherlock, he noticed this. His playfulness vanished, and his face hardened into an unreadable mask. “From this point forward, you will address me as Master. If this acceptable to you, strip to your underthings and get on your knees immediately.”

 

            All reasoning had left her because this was surely a dream, and therefore meaningless. She pulled off her dress and took off her shoes. When her fingers went to the tops of her stockings, Sherlock spoke. “Leave them.”

 

            Molly sank to her knees, ready for this lovely flight of fantasy to continue. Sherlock circled her slowly, but she kept her head down, assuming the position she had demanded of so many submissives.

 

            “Lovely,” Sherlock murmured. “I know that everyone thinks I am inexperienced, but this isn’t really about our bodies at all, is it Molly? This is about mental control. The physical is simply icing on the cake.”

 

            “When I was here the other night, I took the liberty of going through your drawers, Molly.” He stopped in front of her, but Molly kept her eyes downcast. “You have quite an assortment of ‘playthings’.”

 

            His feet resumed their circular pacing. “Personally, I am partial to the riding crop, which I noted has seen more wear than the other items.” He waited a few seconds, then spoke again. “Now, I have only whipped dead bodies up to this point, so don’t hesitate to use your safe word if needed. Say ‘yes, master’ and go fetch the crop from your dresser drawer if you agree.”

 

            “Yes, Master,” Molly breathed, rising. Walking to her bedroom felt more like floating, and even though she had the physical evidence of the riding crop in her hand, she still couldn’t believe what was happening. She came back into the living room and knelt, offering the crop up to Sherlock with hands raised above her head.

 

            “What lovely manners,” he took the crop from her hands. “Part of me is pleased, and another part of me is wondering who taught you such pretty ways.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I don’t like to share, Molly. Surely you realize that?”

 

            Molly shivered. “Yes, Master.” She couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , think about consequences right now.

 

            “Now, Molly, although I applaud the changes you have made in your wardrobe, your attitude upon my return left much to be desired.” He was behind her now, the crop was sliding down the line of her spine, raising goosebumps in its wake. “Your behavior requires correction, but if you accept correction well, I will reward you.”

 

            “Yes, Master,” she could barely breathe. She thought of these words, of hearing similar phrases from Irene and others. To speak them was incredibly different.

 

            Sherlock pulled her to her feet and then immediately pushed her forward from the waist. She was bent double, her arse straight up in the air. “Hands flat on the floor, my little pathologist.”

 

            She didn’t think of herself as little except when she was next to him, but the phrase made both her heart and her nether region swell.   “Yes, Master,” she managed from her awkward position. Molly gave thanks to her regular workouts and cool-down stretching sessions.

 

            His hands were on her hips, sliding her knickers to the floor, lingering over her thighs, knees, and calves. Her whole lower half was one big erogenous zone. She felt swollen and needy, and Sherlock hadn’t even really started. “I may have said things to make you doubt yourself in the past, but you are truly lovely, Molly.”

 

            Moisture gathered in her eyes, but Molly blinked back her tears. She was elated and frightened. No one had ever hit her before, other than the extremely rare spankings she had received as a child. That was a large reason why her feelings for Sherlock had always confused her so. She had no idea why she wanted him to dominate her, but oh, god, how she wanted it.  

 

Thoughts of Irene, of how she submitted, came to Molly unbidden. How could she be so different with Sherlock than she was with The Woman? How was it possible to want them both so badly in such opposite ways?

 

            “Molly,” Sherlock growled. “You’re overthinking, dear. Please focus on the here and now immediately.”

 

            Molly took a deep breath, and came back to the present.

 

Sherlock seemed to know when she was ready. “Good. Now, you haven’t any marks, not the faintest bruise, and you are so desperately wet already that I can see it has been a while since you’ve indulged in this behavior.” He chuckled softly. “That makes two of us, but they say it’s like riding a bicycle, don’t they?”

 

The question seemed rhetorical, so Molly didn’t answer. Sherlock made a musing sound. “I think, my little pathologist, for the nature of your crimes, you have earned twenty strikes. You will count them out, and thank me for each one.” The seductive threat in his voice was delicious.

 

Involuntarily, Molly tensed in anticipation of the first strike. It came swiftly across her right buttock, with a sting that, while bearable, made her gasp. “One. Thank you, Master,” she breathed, struggling to remember the protocol.

 

A few seconds passed, and the sting was just turning into a glorious warmth when the second strike fell on the left side, just a tad harder than the first. She didn’t quite wince as she spoke. “Two. Thank you, Master.”

 

It wasn’t until after the tenth stroke, when her entire bottom half felt on fire and her sex so heavy with arousal that she wondered how any submissive survived this beautiful torture, that she felt Sherlock’s hands rubbing her flesh, kneading her buttocks, thighs and hips in a way that brought both pain and pleasure to the surface.

 

“You are doing so well,” his voice seemed deeper than usual, if that were possible, husky. “You’re half-way to bliss, darling.”

 

She was basking in his words, reveling in the feel of his fingers biting into her thigh, and the next stroke caught her by surprise. It was much harder, but the sound that erupted from her mouth was definitely a moan of pleasure. “Eleven. Thank you, Master.”

 

“I do so love hearing that word on your lips, Molly,” his smile was evident in his tone. “Even more than I thought I would.”

 

Molly felt questions on the tip of her tongue. _How often had he thought of her like this_? _When_?

 

By the fourteenth strike, Molly was riding high on endorphins, and she was leaning into the hits, thrusting her hips upwards to meet the crop. Part of her wished that Sherlock would throw the crop aside and finish her off by hand, but the crop would leave better marks, and there was no doubt in her mind that the detective was marking her, in more ways than one.

 

“Twenty. Thank you, Master,” Molly spoke through tears. They had come to her eyes unbidden around number eighteen.

 

“Oh, Molly, you have pleased me so,” Sherlock said softly. He leaned forward over her, gently and slowly pulling her upright.

 

Light-headed, she stumbled against him, and he caught her in his arms, lifting her with one arm supporting her back and the other her knees. Tears streamed down her face freely now. She was sobbing, but she had no idea why. She couldn’t feel anything except the warmth of her skin, the tightness of her unappeased arousal, and Sherlock. He was everywhere around her, smelling so cold and clean, so deep and dangerous. She wasn’t falling into his waters. No, she was already trapped beneath his ice.

 

“Shh, you took your discipline perfectly. I’ll take good care of you now,” Sherlock was moving across the apartment, she realized dimly.

 

He laid her down on the bed, on her side against the pillows. Molly looked up at him, gazing into those unreadable eyes. “We can stop now, Molly,” he finally said, his voice firm, in control. “I can simply hold you and you can go to sleep. I’ll leave during the night, and we’ll pretend this never happened. It will have a special place in my mind palace, but that will be all.”

 

“Or, Master?” Molly heard her own voice coming from some place far away, surely not her own throat.

 

That predatory gleam she had seen earlier entered his eyes, darkening them. “Or, we follow this through to a mutually satisfactory conclusion,” he smirked. The smile vanished as quickly as it came. “I…detest sentiment, Molly. How much of that is really my nature, and how much of it is the conditioning of having Mycroft whisper its dangers in my ear all my life, I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

 

He was kneeling over her now, holding himself over her body in a position that was as much a threat as a promise. “But despite all my intentions, I care about you, Molly Hooper. I care whether you are happy or hurting. I want to see your smiles, not just in my mind palace.” He shifted his weight, lying beside her now, lifting her hand and kissing it. “I want to feel these little fingers in my hair again.”

 

Molly wasn’t sure she was breathing. Did one breathe in a dream?

 

“I don’t know if I would look so happy if I were you,” Sherlock was still quite serious, his earlier playfulness gone. “I am a terrible friend, and I suspect those faults would only be exaggerated in a more intimate relationship.”

 

He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Molly struggled to gather her wits. “Master, I have spent enough time worrying about the future. What is right here, right now, is all I am concerned with. What happens tomorrow will be dealt with tomorrow.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed briefly. “You are sealing your fate then. No turning back now.”

 

“Yes, Master,” she smiled, and pulled his face down for a kiss. It was the first since her punishment, and the automatic twitch of her hips as his tongue thrust into her mouth brought with it a flurry of new sensation, a fiery, throbbing ache that covered her from her waist to the back of her knees. She groaned against him.

 

“You make the most wonderful noises,” he murmured against her throat. His lips were trailing kisses against her neck while he pushed her bra straps off her shoulders. She barely felt those long, thin fingers at her back, undoing the clasp. A quick tug, and her chest was bared to him.

 

Molly pushed her chin to her shoulder, looking away, biting her lip. He had criticized her breasts, in front of everyone. His fingers were on her chin immediately, forcing her to meet his gaze.

 

“They are small, Molly,” He said quietly. “All of you is small,” his eyes were softer, more liquid as he carefully enunciated this next words. “All. Of. You. Is. Perfect.” His smirk came back full force, and it was dazzling. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I don’t own anything that isn’t exceptional.”

 

Her eyes widened his words, even as a flood of heat and moisture rushed between her legs.

 

“Yes, my little pathologist,” his grin widened, showing those sharp, white teeth. “You’ve been mine since I met you, but now I’m claiming you.” He lowered his mouth to her shoulder and bit her, hard.

 

It was beastly, primal, and it hurt like hell, but Molly loved it. He didn’t just want her. He wanted others to know he wanted her. Lust and pride rose in her, and she didn’t even balk that she was basking in deadly sins.  

 

“God, Molly,” he gasped, raising his head even as his hips ground against. “I have too many clothes on.” He rose, pulling her up with him. “Take them off me.”

 

Trembling, Molly unbuttoned his shirt. She traced the new scars she found, evidence that his final victory of Moriarty’s empire had not been an easy one. Her fingers hesitated at his belt.

 

“A bit faster,” he pulled at the end of her braid, forcing her head up and kissing the tip of her nose. “I’m not a patient man, darling.”

 

Molly knelt, her backside protesting, and took off his shoes and socks before rising to undo the belt and push down his trousers. Underneath, he wore grey boxer briefs, the fabric straining to hold back his arousal. A damp spot indicated he was already leaking, and she was glad to know that he was affected as she was, though he did a bloody good job of hiding it. She took a deep breath and pulled down his underwear, kneeling as she did.

 

His cock sprang free, right next to her face, and Molly could smell the salty liquid dripping from the tip. It was long, thick, and beautiful, just like the rest of him. Even though she had no instructions, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning forward and licking the length of him with her tongue. He twitched and groaned, and her cunt pulsed painfully in response.

 

Sherlock grabbed her before she could continue, lifting her and practically throwing her onto the bed. They were completely naked now, save for her thigh-high stockings.

 

“I want to feel you,” his baritone wrapped around her. “I am clean, cleared by all Mycroft’s physicians upon my return. I know you have an IUD. Is this acceptable to you?”

 

Molly met his gaze. She had never had intercourse without a condom, even after she got her IUD. She was a doctor, and she was serious about her safety. “I trust you, Master,” her voice shook, but she nodded firmly.

 

            She caught sight of his smile as he lowered his head to her chest, taking turns at her nipples, nipping, twisting, and sucking with such skill that Molly began to rub against his thigh, frantic for a release. His hands were on her hips in an instant.

 

            “Now, now, Molly,” he chided as he moved lower, kissing her navel. “Surely you know that your orgasms belong to me now, and you will only come at my command.”

 

            His words almost pushed her over the edge, her muscles contracting, the bruising on her arse and thighs screaming as she tried to still her thrashing. “Yes, Master.” She sounded terribly petulant, even to her own ears.

 

            Sherlock was laughing loudly now. “You’re adorable when you’re pouting, little one. Don’t worry, I am going to let you come.” His face was filled with that devilish grin. “As soon as you beg me for it. I want to hear how much you want me, Molly Elizabeth Hooper.”

 

            Of course he would want his ego fed, the arrogant bastard, Molly thought, but she was too aroused to care. She did want him badly, and she had learned from Irene that sometimes an honest abdication of power was the most powerful move of all.

 

            Long fingers were pushing her thighs apart, spreading her moist folds. Sherlock’s dark curls were the only thing visible as he bowed his head to her cunt. That biting tongue was lashing her most sensitive spot, pushing her to the edge, then pausing to pull her back. He was toying with her, or at least he thought he was. Molly was actually getting exactly what she had always wanted.

 

            Molly wound her fingers in his hair, remembering his earlier statement. She stroked and scratched at his scalp. He moaned against her, a sharp exhalation of hot breath that stilled his tongue for a second. “You taste the way opium smells, Molly. Sweet, earthy, heady.” He gave a long, slow lick along her seam. “I may be developing a new addiction.”

 

            “Please, master,” she shivered, tugging at his hair.

 

            “What do you want, Molly? Tell me,” he lifted his head, his lips and chin glistening with her fluids. Her heart wrenched for a second at the memory of Irene in a similar position, but she pushed it away.

 

            “You, Master, please, I can’t go any longer without knowing what you feel like inside me.” Molly didn’t even attempt to disguise her need. Sherlock would have seen through her in instant.

 

            He didn’t wipe his face before descending on her mouth, and Molly could taste herself. She was pleased to know that he enjoyed her, though she didn’t think she had the lemony tang of Irene that made her so wild.

 

            She could feel him hard against her stomach, and she tried to wiggle down to return the favor, but Sherlock held her in place. “I have analyzed the advantages of several positions,” he said, his hands now pushing her wrists into the bed, his hips pining hers. “And though I am sorely tempted to turn you over on your knees so that I can view my handiwork on your lovely hindquarters, I want to look into your eyes as you come apart.”

 

            As he spoke these words, he re-aligned his hips and thrust into her. Molly gasped at the intrusion. He was stretching her nearly past endurance.

 

            “Breathe, darling,” He kissed her temples, moving yet farther into her as he did. “Stretch for your Master,” he purred.

 

            Never would those words have been acceptable from any other man, but Sherlock’s voice opened her body like a key. Molly moaned as she felt herself get even wetter, allowing him to sheath himself completely. She had never felt so invaded, so full, so thoroughly owned.

 

“My God, Molly!” He began to move, faster than she would have thought she wanted, harder than she would have thought she could take, but each thrust was bloody fucking magic, and it was mere moments before she was babbling, begging in a way that would have her blushing in the future.

 

“Please, Master, please, I need, I need,” her words came out on huffs of breath, her whole body beginning to shake. She needed release so badly. She would surely die without it.

 

“Not yet, little pathologist,” Sherlock’s voice bored through her pleasured haze. “Hold on a bit longer.” He rose, now kneeling above her, pulling her hips closer with his long, white arms. They were definitely more muscular than when she had tended him after the Fall. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, the compliment falling from her mouth without conscious thought.

 

He stilled, his clear, bright eyes searching her own. He seemed pleased with what he saw there. “I should punish you for speaking out of turn, but you are simply too lovely on your back at this moment.” He grinned wickedly as she relaxed. “On second thought, bad behavior should be nipped in the bud.”

 

Before she had actually registered his intent, Molly had been flipped over onto her stomach, and Sherlock was pulling her onto her knees. She felt weak with overwrought sensation, she wasn’t sure how she didn’t just fall forward. His left hand curled around her hip as the fingers of his right hand traced the marks that were surely starting to darken from red to purple. His touch was teasing, feather-light. She shook, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She was so far gone, she thought she’d let him do whatever he wanted. Tears filled her eyes again. They spilled as he began to spank her, alternating caresses and slaps, that although not as hard as the crop strikes, stung badly against her already bruised flesh. It hurt. It hurt, but she arched back into his hand, wanting more. She was so close to coming, and when he spread her legs and began slapping her on her cunt, she wailed, all the longing and frustration pouring out.

 

“Don’t you dare disobey me again, little one,” he had let go of her hip and grasped the end of her braid instead. He gave a hard tug, and she raised her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, not as much from discomfort as from the effort it took to hold back the muscles in her cunt from contracting. She didn’t know how much longer she could control herself.

 

As always, Sherlock read her. “You don’t have to control yourself, Molly Hooper. That’s my domain now.”

 

The way he caressed the syllables of her name very nearly undid her. She was soaking her thighs, throbbing like a bass drum, and she wouldn’t, couldn’t disappoint him. So she gave into his words, found the strength, and pushed back her orgasm for what had to be in the double digits.

 

“Molly, you amaze me,” Sherlock said after several minutes, his hand finally still.

 

She felt boneless as he arranged them again, this time with Molly on top of him. He was just as much of a tight fit as her gripped her hips, his fingers biting into her buttocks. She winced.

 

“Work through it, little one,” he gave her a cruel smile, no pity at all. “The pain will only sweeten the pleasure,” he instructed.   “You took your admonition just as well as your earlier punishment. As a reward, find a rhythm that pleases you, darling.”

 

Molly moved cautiously. He was deep inside, filling her so completely, that the slightest rocking of her hips set off a dual reaction of pain and pleasure, twining together so tightly that she could barely tell them apart. His hands had moved to her breasts, and she screamed at the added sensation. She began to move faster, tipping her pelvis back and forth, as though she were riding a horse. She’d always wanted a pony. She giggled at the thought that she’d gotten Sherlock instead.

 

A dark eyebrow quirked at her. “As fetching as that giggle was, if you are thinking at all right now, you are thinking far too much.”

 

With that he sat up, thrusting his hips into hers at an entirely new and incredibly effective angle, put those long, slim fingers between her legs, plucked directly on her clitoris, and whispered, in the most sinful and beautiful timbre she had ever heard, “Now, sweet Molly, come for me now. Look into my eyes and come for your Master.”

 

Every muscle in her body seized, she shook with a force she’d never imagined possible. As the contractions continued, she felt euphoria, a high so intense she wondered briefly if she had left her body. She was weightless, floating, even as she stared into Sherlock’s gorgeous eyes, which had shed their defenses as he thrust into her once more, and held her gaze as he, too, came apart.

 

 

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

           

 

           

           

 

           

 

           

 

           

 

           

 

           

 

           

 

           


	12. Hi, Honey, I'm Home!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock deal with the morning after. Irene returns. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Molly makes a choice in this chapter, but I want to make it clear that I don't see this choice as an end, just a bridge which will need to be crossed.

oOo0oOo – Chapter Twelve – oOo0oOo

 

            Molly came to consciousness slowly. She didn’t open her eyes, but from the light filtering through her eyelids, she knew it must be at least nine o’clock. The truth was that she was afraid to sit up, to look around, to move at all. The slightest movement might very well dispel the incredible dream she had experienced last night, or even worse, it might prove the dream to have been reality. Conflicted was not even the word to describe her mental state. What had she done?

 

            “Your pretense at slumber is ridiculous. You might as well sit up and have some tea.” Sherlock’s voice filled the room, and Molly couldn’t help but hear the edge it held.

 

            Gingerly, Molly tested her ability to use her muscles. There was discomfort, a soreness in her pelvic region, starting deep within inside her and extending to the entire surface area of her arse, hips, and thighs, as well as a throbbing place on the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Yet, rather than be annoyed, Molly’s first instinct was a combination of renewed lust and pride. Sherlock had done this to her. Sherlock had _wanted_ to do this to her. Sherlock _wanted_ her.

 

            There was an impatient, huffing sound, and Molly finally looked up. Sherlock was at the end of the bed, holding a tea tray with a small pot and two cups. He had put his pants back on, but was naked from the waist up. Molly swallowed. She drew up her legs and he sat down, placing the tray at the end of the bed. Wordlessly, he poured two cups, dropped in two cubes of sugar and squeezed a wedge of lemon in one and handed it to her.

 

            She took it, murmuring her thanks. The new Molly was screaming inside her brain, telling her to take the offensive, but she couldn’t summon the energy at this point. Waiting seemed the best idea.

 

            “I spoke with Mycroft earlier,” Sherlock said. “Your position at Barts is not in danger, but you’ll need to be off for a few weeks.” He added, “with pay.”

 

            “Good,” Molly nodded, but didn’t thank him. He was the reason she had gotten into trouble in the first place.

 

            Those icy blue eyes regarded her for several minutes, but Molly didn’t flinch. She gazed directly back at them.

 

            Sherlock frowned, put down his teacup, then took hers out of her hands. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His frown deepened. “I didn’t intend for last night to unfold the way it did,”

 

            Molly sighed. Of course the morning after incredible sex would be awkward with Sherlock. Better to just be brutally honest and rip this bandage off now than to let the wound underneath fester. “I don’t expect anything from you, Sherlock. It was fantastic, lovely – you fulfilled my long-standing fantasy of you, and more. But I know you don’t want a relationship, and that’s fine.”

 

            A white hand flashed out, grasping her chin in a tight hold. “It’s not ‘fine’ with me, Molly.” Sherlock’s eyes were dark, angry. “I did not say I regretted my actions, nor did I offer you a release from the promises you made last night.”

 

            Molly’s pulse quickened. “I didn’t promise anything, Sherlock.”

 

            His fingers moved down from her chin to trace the bite he’d left on her shoulder. “You gave yourself to me, and I accepted.” He made a shushing sound as she began to speak. “Before you try to claim that it was merely a physical thing, a ‘scene,’ remember who I am. I know you, Molly Hooper.”

 

            She shuddered, basking in the feeling of being wanted by the man she had wanted so long, with no hope of returned affection. Then, she gathered her courage and met his eyes again. “I may desperately want to be yours, Sherlock. I may love you, and want to be dominated by you, but that doesn’t mean that this will work. I told you that I’ve been seeing someone,”

 

            Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, cutting her off in his usual, imperious manner. “Irrelevant. You hadn’t been touched in months, so it can’t be serious. Also, who could compete with me? Especially for you, Molly. As for how this will work, I have no idea. I am new to this, obviously, but you know once I’ve decided on something, nothing will stop me from getting what I want.”

 

            He took her into his arms, quickly, before she could protest. “I will have you, Molly. Don’t fight what you know you’ve wanted for years.” He nuzzled at her neck, at the mark he’d left on her.

 

“I can’t promise not to infuriate you, Molly. I can’t even promise to always be kind,” his voice dropped to a whisper, soft against her skin. “But I find that I need you, Molly. Say it now, in daylight. Say you are mine. I will take the best care I possibly can of you, and your heart.”

 

            She felt her resolve melting at the declaration, but then Mycroft’s words came back to her, mocking her. _“My baby brother thinks you are all that is kind and good. Babbling Molly with her cat and string of never serious boyfriends. Silly, yes, but something he cannot be – open, pure love. He has turned you into the only woman he could ever actually love. And though love is for fools, my brother has the soul of a piratical poet hidden deep inside. What do you think will happen to my brother if his angel falls for The Whore of Babylon?”_

 

            “Sherlock,” she began, her fingers running through those soft, dark curls. This would be the end, she knew. As soon as she told him, he would freeze her out. Forever. But she couldn’t lie to him, not even a lie of omission. “I can be yours, but not yours alone.”

 

            His head snapped up, and Molly wondered how many people had seen that expression on Sherlock’s face and lived to tell the tale. “I don’t share, Molly.” The words were practically spat out. “I can hardly credit that there is another man on this earth who could rival me for your affections.”

 

            “There isn’t another _man_ , no,” Molly replied, exasperated at his arrogance. How could it manage to be both his sexiest and most annoying quality?

 

            Dark brows rose, more in astonishment than in question. “A woman?”

 

            This was going to be awful, Molly knew. She shook her head and took a breath. “The Woman.”

 

            The emotions that flew over Sherlock’s face were heartbreaking. Shock. Anger. Betrayal. Scorn.   He got up, began pacing the room. “What in the world could have possessed you to give yourself to Irene Adler?” His voice had turned cold, emotionless.

 

            “I didn’t give myself to her,” Molly was defiant. “She gave herself to me. The way I gave myself to you,”

 

            Sherlock made a scoffing sound. “The Woman would never willingly submit to anyone. That isn’t in her nature. If she is acting submissive, then that is exactly what she is doing – acting.”

 

          “No, it isn’t!” Molly protested. “I know our relationship is complicated,”

 

            “Complicated?” Sherlock interrupted. “Complicated by the fact that she is a narcissistic sociopath who plotted with a narcissistic psychopath to destroy the foundations of this country?” His eyes narrowed. “A narcissistic psychopath whom you were dating briefly.”

 

            Molly looked away without meaning to – it was simply reflex to try to escape the intense scrutiny of those piercing blue shards of ice.

 

            “No, Molly,” Sherlock’s voice was a bit quieter now. “Not Moriarty. He was pretending to be gay, he wouldn’t have…”

 

            She glanced back at him, upset but determined not to let him shame her. “I convinced myself you were right, that he was just confused or experimenting.”

 

            “Fine,” he bit off. “Moriarty is in the past, a blip. But Irene – you were with her knowing what she was, what she is.”

 

            “If you hate her so, why did you save her life?” Molly countered.

 

            His eyes widened. He sat down in her corner chair, steepling his fingers. “Do you love her?”

 

            “Yes,” Molly answered quickly.

 

            “More than you love me?” He gave her a smug smile, his arrogance returning in full force.

 

            Molly wasn’t going to rise to that bait. “It is a different love. I can’t compare them like that, but the intensity and the desire to be with her is as strong as what I feel for you.”

 

            Sherlock looked thoughtful, almost playful. Molly wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he was thinking. He was silent for quite a while before he suddenly rose, stalking over to her. “I don’t believe that for one moment, Molly,” he was pressing her into the pillows, pulling back the covers, and covering her body with his own.

 

            The feel of his cool, hard skin was instantly arousing. He was kissing her all over, moving across and down her face to her arms and shoulders, then dropping to her chest and stomach. She quivered against him.

 

            He lifted his head, a smirk on those wide lips. “You were made lonely and vulnerable by my absence, and The Woman temporarily filled that void,” he began to move his mouth against her abdomen, drawing hard on the flesh. “But I am home now, and Irene will simply need to know when she is beaten.”

 

            “You really are an insufferable git, Sherlock Holmes,” Molly moaned. “Just because I love you and want you doesn’t mean I will let you manipulate me.” She let out a hiss as his teeth nipped at her hipbone – it hurt in a wonderful way. “Irene and I have something beautiful, and I can’t just end it.”

 

            “This isn’t manipulation,” Sherlock grinned. “It’s persuasion. You will choose me, Molly Hooper. I guarantee it.”

 

            Molly pulled at Sherlock’s face, forcing him upwards. “Three years ago, if you had come to me, told me that you wanted me, that you wanted to be with me, I would have forsaken anything to be with you.”

 

            His smile left. “This wasn’t an easy decision, Molly. You talk of forsaking, well, I am giving up a fundamental ideal that shaped my life to be here, to say out loud that I need you. I won’t lose out to Irene’s tricks.” He shook his head. “How can you possibly trust her?”

 

            “You aren’t the only person who has changed, Sherlock,” Molly said gently. She couldn’t deny that he had exposed a vulnerability to her that she felt she had a duty to protect. “Irene regrets her actions with Moriarty, and she isn’t dealing with secrets of national importance any longer.”

 

            “No, but I’m sure she’s still collecting plenty of them, and using them to keep herself in both style and protection.”

 

            Molly nodded. “Yes, she still works as a Dominatrix, but that’s who she is – I would never ask her to change that, no more than she would ask me to stop being a pathologist.”

 

            Sherlock shifted his weight, stretching out beside her on the bed. He held out his arm, and she cuddled into his side, throwing her naked leg over his clothed one. It was a position that made her feel relaxed, which she suspected he knew. He ran his fingers lazily over her hip. “I don’t want you to be hurt, Molly. I am not perfect, but I am not a professional blackmailer. What kind of future could you possibly have with Irene?”

 

            “What kind of future could I possibly have with you?” Molly found herself asking against his chest. “Do you see yourself getting married? Having children?”

 

            He laughed loudly, the vibrations moving through Molly’s cheek. “Yes, because children would be a possibility with Irene!”

 

            Molly sniffed. “I could still have a child, or we could adopt,” but even as she spoke the words, she doubted herself. She loved children, had always wanted to have some eventually, but she honestly didn’t know Irene’s position on the matter, although it didn’t seem likely that she would want children.

 

            “I don’t know what will happen in the future, but I know that as mercurial as I am, I am still more stable than The Woman.” He paused. “When will she return?”

 

            “Tomorrow,” Molly answered quietly. “I’m picking her up at Heathrow.”

 

            “And what does she have to say about us?” he queried. He was kissing her hairline, and she couldn’t help snuggling into him.

 

            “I’m not exactly sure,” Molly admitted. “She knew that you wanted me before I did.”

 

            Sherlock sighed. “So did Mycroft. He’s going to be even more insufferable than usual when I see him next. Hopefully, that will be far into the future.”

 

            Molly sat up, wincing at the pain blooming in her lower half. “I need to have an idea of what this is between us, Sherlock. What do you want from me?”

 

            “I simply want you, Molly,” he said. “I have no grand plans other than being able to call you mine.” He looked up at her, his eyes warmer than she’d ever seen. “Say it. Please.”

 

            Molly knew she was his. She had been for years. “I am yours, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but Irene is mine, and I can’t give her up.”

 

            He nodded. “That will do for now, my little pathologist, but don’t expect it to stay that way.”

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

 

            Molly stood by the security checkpoint, waiting for Irene to arrive. Her hair was pulled into a fishtail braid with the bottom pinned up at the nape of her neck. She had on a pair of buff-colored flared trousers, and a hunter green turtleneck shell. Although the day was a bit warm, it was the only thing she owned that would cover Sherlock’s bite, which was much higher on her shoulder than she had originally thought. There were no marks on her arms, so thankfully, those could go bare. Her hindquarters were still quite sore, but she felt a thrill at the twinges of pain.

 

            Finally, she saw The Woman, wearing a dark pink linen sheath dress with white silk hibiscus flowers embroidered boldly over three-quarters of the fabric, and stilettos dyed to match. Her lips were an even darker shade of pink, bordering on an overripe raspberry, and her dark, wavy hair was tucked neatly into a French twist. She looked so beautiful, Molly could barely believe that such a woman wanted her.

 

            And yet, there she was, walking over to Molly, a high inches taller due to the heels, giving her a kiss that was mostly on the cheek, but brushed the corner of the pathologist’s mouth.

 

            Molly couldn’t stop herself from grasping Irene’s face and connecting their lips fully. Damn the crowds who stared at two women, she had been denied Irene’s company too long to care. Irene chuckled into her mouth, but kissed her as a lover, not a friend.

 

            “That was lovely, dear,” Irene’s lips curved into a sly smile. “I see you have been missing me, despite the attentions of one consulting detective.”

 

            As if no time had passed, as if Irene had been naked and kneeling in her flat just last night, Molly pinched at The Woman’s waist. “Stop fishing for compliments, kitten, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

            It felt good, and right, to put her arm around Irene and lead her to the taxi. Was it wrong that Irene brought out a completely different side of her than Sherlock did? Should she be squelching one side in order to be in a more traditional relationship? Would what she had to tell Irene hurt her?

 

            Glancing at The Woman, who had turned sideways in the backseat of the cab to drape her legs over Molly’s lap, Molly pondered these questions. Irene looked like her normal, invulnerable self, but Molly knew that this was a shield, a protective layer that kept Irene’s heart safe.

 

            They didn’t talk much on the way back to Molly’s flat, but the silence was very comfortable. Irene stroked Molly’s hand, and Molly felt so grateful to have The Woman back that she couldn’t come up with words adequate to express her feelings. Instead, she raised Irene’s hand to her lips and kissed it softly. The smell of her love so honey-sweet, with the tartness of lemon and the tang of sex filled Molly’s nostrils, and she just wanted to bury herself between Irene’s thighs.

 

            _God, have you become a sex addict?_ her inner voice chided. _Shut up!_ She responded quickly. _I’ve gone almost a year with nothing. I’ve catching up to do!_ Irene smirked at her, and Molly suspected that The Woman was having similar thoughts.

 

            Once in the flat, Molly ordered Irene into the green armchair. “You must be absolutely exhausted. That flight is beastly.”

 

            “I had help sleeping from a good bottle of red wine,” Irene answered, but sat as instructed, crossing her legs at the knee.

 

            Molly came out from the kitchen, a basin of hot water in her hands. She placed it on the floor at Irene’s feet and added a few drops of peppermint oil. Next, she knelt beside Irene and folded back the hem of The Woman’s dress until she found the tops of her stockings. Slowly, letting her fingers touch all of Irene’s thighs, Molly detached the stockings from the garter belt. She carefully rolled the stockings down The Woman’s leg. By the time both stockings were neatly folded and placed to the side, Irene was biting her bottom lip.

 

            With gentle movements, Molly placed Irene’s bare feet into the basin. Irene gasped at the hot water, but didn’t pull back. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.” Molly went to the bathroom and grabbed a washrag, towel, oatmeal scrub, and some lavender scented lotion. She sat down in front of Irene, and washed her feet, using deep, slow kneading motions. Then she rinsed her feet and dried them, getting up to empty out the basin.

 

            She returned quickly, sitting again, and took Irene’s right foot into her lap. Opening the jar of lotion, she rubbed some between her palms, then began to caress Irene’s toes, arch, and heel. Under the gentle but steady pressure, Irene’s head fell back against the chair, and Molly continued, thoroughly massaging both feet and calves up to the knees.

 

            “What a lovely welcome home,” Irene murmured, running a hand down the side of Molly’s cheek. “But I can’t help but think it’s an apology of some sort.”

 

            Molly looked up, her fingers tightening on the back of Irene’s shapely calves. “Perhaps it is. I’m not sure what I’ve done.”

 

            Irene made a noise in between a snort and a laugh. “I have a pretty good idea, Mistress Molly.”

 

            Molly blushed. “I mean, I don’t know how this can go forward. Me. You. Sherlock.”

 

            Extending a hand down, Irene grasped Molly’s and pulled her into her lap. Molly went easily, feeling strangely like a child for a moment, but wanting the comfort Irene was offering. Irene held her tightly, and Molly put her head on Irene’s shoulder, thinking that this was what she had missed for so long.

 

            “You don’t need to feel guilty on my account,” Irene spoke softly, her lips tickling Molly’s jawbone. “I understand that desire is a force of its own, and that the moment of opportunity can be nearly impossible to resist. Add love to desire, in any ratio, and it would take a saint to walk away.”

 

            Molly’s heart thumped. “Did you have any ‘irresistible moments’ in America?”

 

            Irene shook her head. “No love, but plenty of lust,” she paused. “We never discussed the parameters of our relationship, so I erred on the side of caution. I did nothing that I wouldn’t do in front of you.”

 

            “Those are wide parameters, I think,” Molly responded. She had wondered how she would feel if Irene was with someone else in a sexual manner, and she found that it didn’t hurt her the way she thought it would. “Perhaps we should verbalize them so that we are both clear.”

 

            “Does this mean we are in a relationship?” Irene arched an eyebrow. “Maybe we should start with that question.”

 

            Molly frowned. “I am sorry if I made you doubt that fact, Irene. Let me say explicitly that I want to be in a relationship with you, that I love you, and that I won’t give you up, even for Sherlock.”

 

            “So, he’s already made that request, then?” The Woman murmured. “I knew it would only be a matter of time, but this is quick, even by my standards.”

 

            “What kind of a relationship do you really want?” Molly asked, a bit afraid of the answer. She had rushed in, given Irene her heart, but they hadn’t even completely defined what they were to one another.

 

            Irene’s blue eyes, pale like Sherlock’s, were thoughtful. “The last time we were together, I honestly didn’t know. The past months have given me time to ask myself that very question, though.” She took a deep breath. “I have never been in an exclusive relationship. My work and play have always been so sexually charged that they have a tendency to bleed into one another. I shied away from anyone who wanted any type of deep emotional connection.”

 

            “I came to you honestly believing that I was going to help Sherlock and entertain myself by convincing you to try a relationship with Sherlock when he returned. I never expected to fall in love with you. Even after it was obvious that it was love, I didn’t think it would ever work in the long-term.”

 

            “Do you still think that?” Molly felt like she might be sick. Was Irene preparing her for rejection?

 

            Irene stroked Molly from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck. “No, Mistress mine, I don’t. These months away have convinced me that you are no novelty or passing fancy. I will happily spend the rest of my life with you if you’ll have me.”

 

            It was as if Molly could suddenly breathe again. Relief flooded her veins like a tranquilizer and her muscles relaxed. “Irene, there is nothing I want more.”

 

            “Not even Sherlock Holmes?” Irene’s voice was not at all playful.

 

            “If the choice is you or him, my decision is unequivocally you, kitten,” Molly sighed into her lover’s neck. She straightened and looked into her eyes. “But if there is a way to not make the choice, I would be grateful.”

 

            The Woman smiled, that wide, sexy, intensely devious grin she practically had trademarked. “Well, that is a different conversation, now isn’t it? As long as I am first, I do not need to be the only.”

 

            Molly’s brow furrowed. “I don’t want to give you the impression that I want to go out and have sex with strangers. I don’t. I want to live with _you_ , to be in a committed relationship with _you_. Any scenes at a club, public or private, would not include sexual contact. The only person I would want to be intimate with besides you would be Sherlock.”

 

            “How positively Puritanical of you, Mistress,” Irene teased. She shook her head as she laughed, her arms wrapping tight around Molly. “I don’t want to have sexual contact in scenes either. The idea of coming home and working out any sexual tension I might have with you sounds splendid. As for Sherlock, you know I have a terribly soft spot for him. If he wanted to occasionally ‘borrow’ you, I wouldn’t protest. Maybe we could all three have fun.”

 

            A shiver of desire went through Molly at the thought of her number one fantasy, having Irene and Sherlock together. “I don’t think that will happen,” she said regretfully. “In fact, I’m fairly certain that Sherlock wants an all-or-nothing proposition, which I can’t give him.”

 

            Irene’s hand slid further down and Molly couldn’t stop from wincing at her touch. The Woman raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so that’s how it went, then. My guess was 60/40 for just straightforward sex as opposed to a power exchange. I knew he had it in him to dominate, but I wasn’t sure if he’d try something so filthy on the woman he calls his ‘angel’.”

 

            “He wants me to be his, and only his,” Molly whispered. “I told him I wouldn’t give you up. I think he’s going to try to convince me otherwise.”

 

            “Of course he will. Sherlock’s personality is a superiority complex wrapped tightly around his inferiority complex. You have always validated him. He can’t abide the thought of sharing,” The Woman laughed. “But I’m perfectly willing to teach our rude little detective how to share, even if it means resulting to corporeal punishment.”

 

            Molly squirmed on Irene’s lap. Watching Irene be dominant with others was an incredible turn-on, and to see her dominate Sherlock? Well, she was near to an orgasm just thinking about it.

 

            Irene gently pushed Molly off her lap. “I’d like to see what he did to you, please,” her voice was soft, but firm. “I need to know that you’re alright, that you received proper aftercare.”

 

            “He did what came naturally,” Molly protested. “He isn’t trained in dominance.”

But she took off her clothes, watching Irene’s face harden at the marks on her neck and backside.

 

            Irene’s cool, thin fingers traced the bite on Molly’s neck, then trailed down to the bruises. “Our boy has a heavy hand,” her lovely mouth was set in a grim line. “If he is going to be touching you in this way again, he will need to learn a few things. I won’t have you being unsafe, Molly.”

 

     She knelt, and began pressing soft kisses to the marks. “You must have been deep into subspace to not have been screaming in protest.”

 

     Molly nodded. “I was.” She paused, then continued. “And I understand what I didn’t before, how arousing it can be to be beaten. I didn’t ever give you that, even though I knew it was something you wanted.”

 

     “Oh, Mistress,” Irene put her cheek against Molly’s hip. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that made you feel uncomfortable.”

 

     Leaning down, she pulled Irene up to face her. Without their shoes, they were exactly eye-level. As dangerous as she felt with Sherlock, Molly felt that safe with Irene. “That’s just it, kitten. I wanted to give you everything, even if it stretched my boundaries, so I took some lessons, from a proper, quite lovely professional Domme. I learned how to do just about everything, and how to do it safely.”

 

     Molly kissed Irene, a sweet, soft kiss that promised more to come. “In fact, I ordered a few things especially for us to play with when you returned.”

 

     “Indeed?” Irene’s tone was light, but her eyes glistened. “That was very kind of you.”

 

     “Kind of me to learn how to beat you properly?” Molly couldn’t resist teasing. “I must have been taking the wrong lessons.”

 

     “What I meant to say is that I am very happy to hear that,” Irene amended with a smile. “But can I make a request for tonight?”

 

      Molly took Irene’s hand and brought it to her lips. “Anything, kitten.”

 

      “Can we just hold one another until we fall asleep?”

 

      Happily, Molly nodded. “I missed that, too.”

 

      They walked hand in hand to the bedroom. Molly unzipped Irene’s dress and took the pins out of her hair, using her fingers to massage The Woman’s scalp. Irene turned to her afterwards and unbraided Molly’s hair, returning the favor. Curling her toes into the rug in pleasure, Molly moaned. Her scalp always got sore from braids, and Irene’s touch was so soothing.

 

      Both women were completely naked now, and as beautiful as The Woman’s body was, Molly put her lust to the back of her mind and pulled down the bedcovers. She had laundered all the bedding after Sherlock had left, and wondered again if she would ever be able to reconcile her desire for two people with her belief of what a committed relationship should look like.

 

    Her thoughts must have been on her face because Irene got into the covers and pulled Molly down to her. “Don’t fret so, Mistress. I know you’ve never been in a situation like this before, but I’m not going to shame you or blame you for feeling what I felt myself. As long as I know that I am first in your heart, I don’t begrudge Sherlock a part of you.”

 

   “You are first,” Molly said fiercely.

 

    Irene kissed her gently. “Then stop worrying so.”

 

    Molly smiled at Irene’s sleepy face. The Woman was already half-gone. She wrapped her body against Irene’s, spooning her, and tried to follow her lover’s advice.

 

 

           

 

           


	13. Sherlock needs hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary throws a party. Guess who's coming to dinner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short. Real-life has been fierce, but I wanted to put out a little tidbit. I'll work on getting something longer up soon. Love and kisses to all my readers!
> 
> Also, the board game mentioned is a top seller in the U.K. It poses personal questions to prove how well one does (or doesn't) know the other players.

oOo0oOo - Chapter 13 - oOo0oOo

 

            Molly was fairly certain that Mary Morstan was an evil genius, and, of course, that realization made Molly fall just a little bit in love with her. She was standing in Mary and John’s living room, watching Mary orchestrate the revival of Sherlock and John’s friendship, against both of their wishes.

           

            The two men looked incredibly sullen, but Mary’s stern “neither of you is leaving until this is worked out,” had apparently scared John, and the look on John’s face had made Sherlock pause mid-scoff.

 

            “Fine.” Sherlock bit the word off, his enunciation sharp. He shrugged off his Belstaff, starting to throw it over the back of Mary’s sofa.

 

            “This isn’t 221B,” John growled. “Hang up your bloody coat like a bloody grown-up.”

 

            Mary made a small tutting sound. “Now, John, love, I can take Sherlock’s coat. He is a guest, after all.”

 

            The two men sat in silence while Mary left the room, and Molly nearly choked when she saw what Mary had in her hands when she came back.

 

            “Mary,” John said in a tone of horror.

 

            Molly tried to stifle her laughter, but something like a snort came out.

 

            Sherlock gave her a withering look that sent a gush of liquid straight to her knickers, then snapped at Mary. “I hardly think that either of us requires board games or whatever other ‘trust-building’ activities you have planned.”

 

            Mary was clearly not put off at all. She gave both men her dazzlingly wide smile, then placed the stack of board games on the coffee table. “Don’t worry, boys. This is only a warning. If you can make up properly by the time we’ve made dessert, there’ll be no need for a marathon session of _Mr. & Mrs._”

 

            John and Sherlock eyed the bright pink box as though it held a bomb. Molly couldn’t keep it together any longer, and began laughing so hard, she nearly dropped her wine glass.

 

            “It isn’t _that_ funny,” John mumbled, annoyed.

 

            Out of instinct, Molly sat down beside him, wrapping a reassuring arm around his shoulders. This was her second glass of cabernet, and she had momentarily forgotten that she was terrified of John’s rejection. He glanced up at her, surprised, and she quickly made to pull back, but the man who had become like her brother over the past few years grabbed her wrist, keeping her in place.

 

            This was all the encouragement Molly needed, and she put her wine glass down and wrapped her arms around John. He returned her embrace, and Molly began to cry.

 

            “I wanted to tell you, so badly,” she cried, her words muffled by her tears and the fabric of John’s shirt. “But Sherlock made it clear that everyone was in danger, that you would be the very first target. I felt horrible, but there was nothing else I could do.”

 

            John kissed the top of her head in that way he had that made her feel like he truly was her brother, that he had been comforting her since they were children.

 

            “Oh, Molly, you know I can’t stay mad at you,” John smiled at her as they straightened.

 

            “Why does she get a free pass?” Sherlock huffed, in a perfect impersonation of a particularly bratty twelve year old. “You _hit_ me and you _hug_ her?”

 

            “Poor Sherlock,” Molly teased. “Do you need a hug?”

 

            John laughed and Sherlock glared. He stood and grabbed Molly’s wrist, pulling her through the sliding doors that opened onto a small garden area. It was a warm enough evening, and there was a smell of lilac in the air. Despite the warmth, Molly shivered at the look in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

            “I have given you some space these last few days,” Sherlock was dangerously close, and Molly’s knees felt a bit weak. “But I think your reprieve is over.”

 

            “Sherlock,” Molly immediately met his gaze, to show him she wouldn’t be intimidated. “You can’t control me outside of the bedroom. I won’t allow it.”

 

            He grinned down at her, his face more angular because of the half-light. He was sexy as hell, he was her weak spot, and he knew it. “Oh, Molly, do you really think you can resist the urge to” he leaned down and whispered in her ear, the feathery touch of his lips sending a rush of sensation down her spine “do whatever I tell you?”

 

            “Yes, Sherlock, I really do.” Molly raised her chin defiantly. “Now, get back in there and make up with John before Greg and Mrs. Hudson show up. Mary won’t hesitate to rope everyone into the games. She’s ruthless.”

 

            Sherlock’s face changed from aggressively seductive to blank. Molly suspected he was scared of John’s rejection, and was trying to hide this fact. She suddenly felt protective of him and that strange ego of his that fluctuated from overblown to fragile in milliseconds.

 

            “John loves you, Sherlock,” she stroked the side of his face, and was surprised that he let her, actually leaning into her touch. “He wants to forgive you; he just needs to get over the shock and the hurt. Show him that you were hurting too, and it might go faster.”

 

            Sherlock made a groaning noise, half-resistance, half-impatience. He had Molly by the waist now, resting his chin on her hair. “Sentiment," he spat the word. "It ruins everything.”

 

            “No, it fixes things,” Molly argued as she took his hands from her waist and held them. His fingers were surprisingly warm.  She moved her head until she caught those icy eyes with her own warm brown ones.  “No matter what Mycroft told you, if you want to keep the ones you care about, you must let them know you value them.”

 

            “Value them?” Sherlock’s eyes blazed with anger. “I died for them! I spent years working to make it safe to come back! My life has been a void without-”

 

            “A void without me?” John had opened the door, and was smirking at his friend. “I’m touched, Sherlock.”

 

            Sherlock remained silent for a few moments, then stepped away from Molly and locked eyes with John. “I am sorry that everything was so complicated, John. I am sorry for the deception. I knew I was hurting you, but I was selfish. If something had happened to you, I would have been lost. Please forgive me.”

 

            John frowned. “You aren’t just saying this to get out of the board games?”

 

            Those wide lips quirked, and Sherlock couldn’t stop his smile. “Perhaps, but I mean at least 50% of what I’m saying.”

 

            “Half-sincere?” John raised an eyebrow. “That’s progress.”

 

            Mary poked her head out the door. “Greg’s here, but Mrs. Hudson called to say her hip’s acting up.” She took in everyone’s expression. “Looks like a tentative peace,” she grinned. “Excellent. That will do for starting dinner. Come in.”

 

           

            The doctor and the detective walked back inside, Sherlock mumbling something about everyone benefitting from herbal soothers, and John responding in defense of Mrs. Hudson. Molly started to follow, but was pulled aside by Mary.

 

            The blonde was positively glowing. “I saw that tender touch, Molly Hooper, and I saw that sultry smolder he laid on you before that. What is going on between you two? I need details!”

 

            Molly sighed. She didn’t even know where to start, and there was already too much going on tonight to get into the complicated love triangle she seemed to be the hypotenuse of. “It’s a long story, Mary.”

 

            Mary shook her head. “Then just answer this question. Did you two sleep together?”

 

            Even if it had been subzero temperatures, Molly still would have flushed at that, and Mary laughed in delight. “Good lord, I didn’t think the man had it in him, from John’s descriptions, though he is something to look at, isn’t he?”

 

            Molly’s cheeks went darker. “You have no idea – he’s all lean muscle and that voice…”she trailed off, lost in lustful memories.

 

            “So, he’s to blame for the fact that you wince a bit when you sit, and that bite I keep seeing the edge of from under that overly warm shirt you’re wearing.” Mary’s tone was teasing. “I thought you were the one who liked to take charge.”

 

            Molly was sure her face was completely red now. She didn’t mind sharing intimate details with Mary – they were close friends – but what had happened with Sherlock still felt raw. She had wanted him for so long that her memories seemed like wish fulfillment, not reality.   “Well, I made an exception for him,” Molly answered shortly. “Let’s get back in – Sherlock’s probably driving Greg up the wall.”

 

            “Don’t think this conversation is over, Molly,” Mary said as she walked back to the door and opened it. “We’re going to be have a detailed discussion over lunch.”

 

            Nodding in agreement, Molly reminded herself to focus on the fact that John and Sherlock were friends again, and to keep those other thoughts at bay for now.

 

            The evening progressed much better than expected. Sherlock was on his best behavior for once, even eating a few bites of the meal Mary had cooked. He kept his snide remarks to a minimum, and even indulged John, Greg, and Molly in their reminisces about past cases and adventures.

 

            Mary had just placed the trifle on the table when the doorbell rang. John looked at his fiancée. She gave a shrug, and headed to the front entrance.

 

            Greg cleared his throat. “It could be Anderson,”

 

            “Good God!” Sherlock’s attempt to be nice was clearly coming to an end. “He lowers the IQ of the entire room! I can’t be responsible for my actions if Anderson joins us.”

 

            John turned to Sherlock, more amused than annoyed. “You know, he does feel awful about everything that happened,”

 

            Greg nodded. “He’s a different man, Sherlock, truly.”

 

            “That means nothing to me,” Sherlock said in a surly tone. “Anderson has never been on my list of people to impress.”

 

            “More’s the pity for Anderson,” came a silky tone from the doorway. “I recall you impressing me near to the point of orgasm in about, oh, less than five seconds.”


	14. Irene Adler: Party Crasher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene joins the fun. Sherlock pouts. Molly frets. Mary laughs. John and Greg drink...heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't very long, and it fought me every letter of the way, but I was victorious! Now, I'm working on the next round (sighs). Hope you all enjoy! The comments and kudos have been wonderful; thank you to all my readers - you are fantastic!

The faces of those in the room covered the range of human expression, Molly thought. Greg was surprised, intimidated, and a touch lustful as he gazed at Irene, dressed in an ensemble of high-waisted navy trousers and a cream silk blouse with a neckline plunging nearly to her navel that would have looked perfectly in place on Katherine Hepburne or Marlene Dietrich. John wore an expression of shock coupled with annoyance. Mary’s smile was the widest it had been all night, and the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement at the situation, as well as her interest in what might happen next.

 

Molly knew her own face was a struggle between frustration and panic. She should have known Irene would show up, that The Woman would want to confront Sherlock.   Irene was not the average submissive, if such a person existed, and she was as possessive as Sherlock. One glance at the detective showed he had dropped a mask of indifference over that beautiful face, but Molly could see the slight jump of his upper jaw muscle near his ear.   Irene, of course, looked confident and calm as she locked eyes with Sherlock.

 

            “Irene,” Sherlock finally spoke, the name sharply enunciated on his tongue. “I didn’t think you were invited.”

 

            The Woman grinned, falling easily into Molly’s lap and wrapping her arms around Molly’s neck. “I’m Molly’s plus one.” She gave Sherlock a cool look. “Didn’t you know that?”

 

            John made a garbled sound. “Molly, I thought you and Irene were over.”

 

            Mary placed two more bottles of wine on the table. “So did I, considering what happened with Sherlock.”

 

            “Is nothing private?” Sherlock gave Molly a withering glance.

 

            “Don’t be such a prat,” Molly snapped. “Mary is my friend, and I doubt our present company wouldn’t have figured it out sooner rather than later.”

 

            Irene leaned forward and refilled Molly’s glass. “Besides, Sherlock, you aren’t very good at holding your tongue, especially when you’re annoyed.”

 

            “You don’t have the _power_ to annoy me, Irene.” Sherlock didn’t spare her a glance.

 

            Molly felt Irene tense. God, both of her lovers were spoiling for a fight, but she could only exercise immediate control over one of them. John and Greg were both pouring themselves more wine, and looking like they wanted to be anywhere else. She reached up and gave a quick tug on Irene’s elaborate braid. It wasn’t quite hard enough to hurt, but it couldn’t be ignored either. The movement was subtle, but Molly knew that both Mary and Sherlock witnessed it.

 

            “Someone seems to have power over _you_ , though,” Sherlock smirked, those wide lips taking on an infuriatingly smug curve.

 

            Irene emitted a low growl. Molly gave Sherlock an annoyed lip purse over Irene’s shoulder. This night would either end with all three of them playing nice (and hopefully, naked), or two of them would be bound and gagged. Molly smiled at the thought.

 

            Mary clucked her tongue. “Let’s not bait one another. I’m sure there’s plenty of,” she looked from Sherlock to Molly to Irene and then back to Molly, “ _dessert_ to go around.”

 

            “Yes, let’s have that trifle,” John choked into his wine. He rubbed at his face, as though disturbed by the images forming in his mind’s eye.

 

            Greg nodded in agreement. “Do you have anything stronger than wine? I’m thinking I might need it.”

 

            John rose from his seat. “I’ll get the scotch.”

 

            A few shots of hard liquor seemed to improve the atmosphere, and the conversation turned lighter. Everyone drank excessively and talked about soccer and workplace politics. Sherlock pouted and occasionally made a biting remark on the idiocy of organized sports, the police, and hospital bureaucracies.

 

After a while Mary, Molly, and Irene went over to the sofa and browsed through ideas for the upcoming wedding, weighing in on dress possibilities. Even though he was being subtle, Molly could feel Sherlock’s eyes on her, on the way Irene was pushed into her side, her fingers resting lightly on Molly’s thigh.

 

            It really wouldn’t do to put the inevitable off. The three of them needed to have a private conversation, and soon. The tension was making Molly a bit sick to her stomach.

 

            “Kitten,” Molly whispered in Irene’s ear. “I think it’s time to go home, don’t you?”

 

            Irene curled her crimson nails with even darker red tips into Molly’s pant leg, sending little trails of sensation straight to Molly’s center. “I agree,” she murmured. “Is the petulant boy coming with us?”

 

            “Maybe,” Molly kissed the side of Irene’s neck, locking eyes with Sherlock across the room. She raised an eyebrow, and he raised one in return.

 

            Glancing over, Irene grinned as Sherlock scowled. “Oh, I think that’s a yes.”

 

oOo0oOo

 

            Molly and Irene caught a cab back to Molly’s flat. Sherlock had not explicitly said he would follow them, but there was no way he would or could avoid trying to assert his dominance. How things would go from there could be…complicated.

 

            Molly walked over to her green chair, feeling a little dazed. Was this really going to happen? Irene came over, kneeling at Molly’s feet, resting her head on Molly’s lap.

 

            “What are we doing, Irene?” Molly stroked The Woman’s dark hair, absently curling the end of the braid around her fingers. “Bringing Sherlock into this, with both of us? How will this work?”

 

            Those pale blue eyes, close in color to Sherlock’s, yet somehow infinitely warmer, looked up at her. “I’ve no idea, dear Mistress. I suspect it will play out just how it’s meant to. We both want him, and no matter how he denies it, he wants us both. He didn’t travel to the Middle East to help me out of guilt. Sherlock doesn’t do guilt.”

 

            “You’re right,” Molly responded. “But before he arrives, I want you to remember that we are together, and nothing will change that.” She didn’t want to damage things between Irene and herself – not when she’d just gotten The Woman back, and her statement was as much to calm her own nerves as to reassure Irene.

 

            Irene grinned against her lap. “I know that, Mistress, but I hope you know that I can’t possibly submit to Sherlock. My submission is only to you, so he and I will need to work something out betwixt us.”

 

            Molly’s grip in Irene’s hair tightened, pulling The Woman’s head back, a thrill of possessiveness jolting through her at the thought of Irene kneeling before Sherlock, doing for him what she did for Molly. “That’s right, dear. You are my whorish kitten, and Mine alone.”

 

            She took a breath and loosened her grip. “It will be…interesting to see how this plays out.”

 

            “Interesting isn’t exactly the word I would choose,” Sherlock drawled from the doorway, looking at Molly’s hands pulling Irene’s hair with a calculating gaze.

 

            Molly released Irene completely and The Woman stood, stalking toward Sherlock like the predator she was with everyone else. He remained still, but his eyes followed her movement.

 

            Coming to stand in front of him, her red nails raking a line into his white Oxford shirt, Irene spoke with her lips inches from his. “And how would you describe our current situation, witty boy?”

           

            Sherlock caught her hand, gripping it tightly.   He leaned into her, narrowing the distance between them to a hair’s breadth.

 

“Inevitable,” he said, in the crisp voice that bespoke danger on the horizon.

 

Molly was on the edge of her seat, watching her two lovers. Irene was right. Perhaps Sherlock had been able to fool himself, but she could see his attraction to The Woman – bloody hell, a blind person could ‘see’ it – the tension between them practically made the air vibrate.

 

“I concur,” Irene’s lips curved into a wickedly playful smile. “It’s been a countdown to you on your knees since we met.”

 

Sherlock’s head reared back, an arrogant mask covering his face. “I think we’ve previously established that I am the winner of the games we play, Irene.”

 

Rising quickly, Molly came closer, but not far enough to touch them, or interfere in their precarious peace. She spoke to Sherlock first. “This isn’t a game, Sherlock. No one is keeping score,” she shot a look to Irene, then back to Sherlock. “It would be nice if we could all act like reasonable adults.”

 

Two pairs of pale blue eyes gave Molly cool stares. She grinned, unable to keep her thoughts to herself. “You two are too much a like…no wonder I love you both.”

 

A bit of Sherlock’s frostiness thawed as he looked into Molly’s eyes. “I’m not sure what you expect of me, Molly, but I’m not sure I can be with Irene,”

 

“Oh, don’t worry, dear boy, you won’t be _with_ me, you’ll be _beneath_ me.” Irene quipped as she pulled her hand free of his grip and caught his wrist instead.

 

Sherlock stared down at Irene’s thin white fingers, wrapped around his wrist. He arched a brow. “My decidedly non-submissive personality aside, what makes you imagine that I would ever trust you enough to let you have power over me, _woman_?” He said the word like an ancient curse, like a word that was feared on an almost unconscious level.

 

Molly didn’t know whether she should simply sit back and let these two work out their issues, or if it would be better for her to stay close and try to mediate. Sherlock’s jaw was twitching again, but he wasn’t pulling away from Irene, either. Perhaps this would work after all, if they moved slowly and carefully, as if defusing a bomb. She laughed mentally at the image of herself in padded, shielded bomb squad gear, trying to keep both Sherlock and Irene from combusting. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that the New Molly feared nothing, and stepped forward.


	15. The Seduction of Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Irene put on a show for Sherlock and try to help him get over his horror of all things sentimental. Smut and a little tiny bit of angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Wipes sweat off brow* Thank God! This chapter was torture to write. Thank you to all the readers who commented and kept me working on it. Hopefully, the next chapter will come a lot faster.
> 
> I know that more than one reader thought my Sherlock was being a jerk in the last few chapters, but I truly believe that Sherlock is severely emotionally damaged, and that damage often expresses itself as Sherlock being an asshole. He is selfish, needy, and possessive, and I thought his interactions with Molly reflected that. I'm hoping, though, that with both Irene and Molly working on him that Sherlock will learn some manners.

oOo0oOo Chapter 15 oOo0oOo

 

            Sherlock and Irene were still as Molly approached, as if waiting for her cue. The air between the three of them was thick, and each movement felt heavy with meaning. To keep the peace, Molly put a hand on both their arms at the same time, her touch light.

Irene relaxed immediately under her fingers, but Sherlock was still tense, poised for flight.

 

            “Sherlock,” Molly spoke softly, but firmly. “There is only one way this will work, and that is if we are all invested and cooperative.”

 

            The detective’s gaze swept over Irene, then to Molly. “And you think I should submit to The Woman?” His tone was sharp, tinged with anger.

 

            Irene was wisely silent, allowing Molly to slide under her outstretched arm, and put her hand beside The Woman’s, so that they both were touching his chest. Her hand was a mirror image of Irene’s, side by side on his snow-white cotton shirt, so similar in their skin tone and their thin, long fingers. Molly’s skin was a shade darker, a bit more olive than either The Woman’s or Sherlock’s bluish white hue. The scientist in Molly once again catalogued all the similarities of her lovers – their pale eyes and paler skin, their dark hair, and darker hearts, the unspoken need of both to lay aside the burden of their brilliant wit, their uncaring façade, the need they both had to be loved and accepted despite their protests to the contrary. How, Molly wondered, could she make Sherlock know he was safe?

 

            Irene caught her eye, and Molly knew The Woman understood her concerns. Of course she would, Molly thought. Irene was just as intelligent as Sherlock, every bit as devious and thoroughly guarded. The only link they would acknowledge, though, was their shared desire for Molly, and that had to be capitalized upon.

 

            Molly curled her fingers into Sherlock’s shirt, capturing the fabric and pulling him to the green chair, pushing him back into it. He fell back easily against the leather, not fighting Molly’s behavior in the least.

 

            “Why don’t you relax for a moment?” Molly counted on his desire to observe, to catalogue her and Irene’s behavior, to enjoy the show of two women enjoying one another. Sherlock nodded curtly, not betraying any particular interest with his blank expression.

 

            As Molly turned back to her, Irene dropped to her knees. Molly felt a warm pleasure rise within her, like sinking into a hot bath. She focused her attention on Irene, running a hand lightly down the side of her face, cupping Irene’s chin.

 

            “Lovely, my kitten.” Molly smiled down at her, noting Sherlock’s quiet breathing behind them. “I’ve been dreaming of you, sweet thing. I told you that I bought a few things for you, that I practiced to be worthy of your submission.”

            Irene nodded, her eyes downcast, a smile playing at her wide mouth, curling the corner of her scarlet lips.

 

            Molly forced herself to be stern even though she was excited, eager to show Irene what she had learned in her absence, and to demonstrate to Sherlock that she was not an easy mark, that she had hard edges that could be invoked to resist his considerable charms. “Stay here, and be still.”

 

            She went to the bedroom and opened the closet, happy that the box had arrived _after_ Sherlock’s visit. In it was a thick, long paddle of oak with a heart cut out at the striking end, as well as a small ball gag, perfectly sized for Irene’s mouth, with red leather straps in the exact shade of Irene’s favorite lip stain, knowing the contrast against The Woman’s pale skin would be lovely to behold.

 

            The walk back into her living area was short, and Molly kept her eyes on Irene, though a quick glance at Sherlock told her that he remained quiet and unmoved in the chair. Molly felt a bit of panic, a fluttering of nerves in her stomach. She hadn’t ever dominated Irene physically with any real force, and the added pressure of Sherlock as an audience made her pause briefly. She shook her head, reminding herself that she had spent months training with this very fantasy in mind. Surely she couldn’t choke now?

 

            Coming to stand in front of Irene, she laid the paddle and gag on the coffee table, then reached down to take Irene’s hand and help her rise.

 

“I see some barriers that need removing, kitten,” Molly’s voice was deep and even, to her relief. She gently pushed against Irene’s shoulder, guiding her to turn. Once presented with her back, Molly stroked the length of her spine through the thin silk of the shirt, pausing to undo each pearl button perfectly lined up with The Woman’s vertebrae.

 

            As Molly slid the cream-colored fabric off Irene’s shoulders and let it drop to the floor, she heard the faintest intake of breath, and knew that Sherlock was appreciating the view of Irene bare to the waist.   She didn’t hesitate, but continued to Irene’s trousers, unzipping the closure there to reveal first the curve of The Woman’s hip, followed by her buttocks, legs, and finally her ankles.

 

            Irene was now completely naked (no undergarments for her, as usual), and Molly quickly took the gag off the table and held it in front of her lover.

 

            “Open, kitten,” she spoke softly, but firmly, and Irene didn’t hesitate in dropping her jaw wide, though Molly could see apprehension in her eyes. They had never fully discussed likes and dislikes, but temporarily disabling Irene’s mouth was clearly a cause for concern.

 

            “I know you love to make noise, sweet thing,” Molly smiled as she fastened the gag at the back of Irene’s dark hair. “And I do so love hearing those noises, but I have developed a fondness for the look of sheer frustration and helplessness that comes with the use of a gag, and I want to see that expression on your beautiful face.”

 

            A hint of rebellion crossed The Woman’s features, and Molly dropped a reassuring kiss at the corner of her mouth, right where the leather strap of the gag met the smooth skin of her face.

 

“This is not a punishment, my whorish kitten. I bought these things for our mutual pleasure. If I wanted to chastise you, I’d put you in a pink velour jumpsuit with font across the arse and make you kneel in the corner.”

 

            There was a sound of amusement, quickly muffled, from Sherlock, and Irene’s eyes narrowed angrily. Molly caught her chin, directing Irene’s gaze back to her. “You are on display for Sherlock because I will it so, kitten. Have you forgotten so quickly how much it pleases you to please me?”

 

            Unable to speak, Irene shook her head, a wavy strand of hair falling forward. Molly tucked it gently behind The Woman’s ear and then went to kitchen area and grabbed a chair. She placed it in front of Irene.

 

            “Did you ever go to Catholic school, Irene?” Molly asked. Irene shook her head.

 

            Molly nodded. “I didn’t think so. I did, though. I’m sure my mother has my old uniform tucked away in a box somewhere. There was corporeal punishment at my school, but I was never bad enough to deserve it. I was a good girl.”

 

            Irene watched her with wide eyes as Molly lifted the oak paddle from the table. Molly stroked the wood, sanded and varnished to a smooth, pale sheen. “I witnessed others being punished though, when they were bad. Even though I didn’t want to be paddled, I often wondered what it would feel like.”

 

            The leather of the green chair creaked as Sherlock shifted. Molly grinned, knowing he was thinking of how he’d like to paddle _her_. Well, too bad. For now, at least.

 

            “When I first gave serious thought to physically dominating you, Irene, my weapon of choice was clear. A paddle was a perfect fit for such a bad girl.” Molly’s smile spread even wider as she motioned at the chair seat. “Assume the position, my whorish little kitten.”  

 

            Irene’s breathing was already audible as she bent forward, bracing her palms on the seat of the chair, lifting her arse into the air, her legs spread just widely enough for Molly to see her pretty pink cunt, denuded of all hair, as usual, and already glistening with the evidence of her want.

 

            Irene was trying to stand still, but her hips moved slightly as she shifted her weight. Molly knew Irene was far from patient, so she purposely took her time, tracing the heart-shaped cut out in the paddle. It was only a few seconds before Irene made an impatient sound, a little huff of breath muffled by the gag.

 

            Instantly, Molly responded by cracking the paddle against Irene’s pale flesh, watching the blood rush to the surface and turn the creamy white a bright, rosy pink.

 

            “I think you _have_ forgotten, my sweet thing,” Molly leaned down to speak in her ear. “Forgotten how you are mine to do with as I please. And though this isn’t a punishment, I know you well enough to recognize that part of you wishes it were. You seek out pain for pleasure because you believe, deep down, that you need to be reprimanded, reined in, somehow kept from your compulsion to do wicked, wicked things that will ultimately lead to either your emotional or literal death.”

           

            As she continued to paddle The Woman, Molly knew she wasn’t just talking about Irene. True, Molly had never knowingly tangled with Moriarty or plotted to bring an empire to its knees, but she had started a habit of dancing with danger, and dangerous people. If she was honest with herself, she knew that the pull to be dominated was a need to have those dangerous desires kept in check before she danced right over the edge. And Molly was sure that Sherlock needed that too. The three of them were too attracted to one another, too bound, not to share those primal needs. Molly only hoped that by laying herself and Irene bare that Sherlock would feel safe enough to do the same. As much as Molly had enjoyed her time with Sherlock, it was plain to see that he was holding back. He thought he had given everything he had to give, but Molly was confident Irene could extract more, and when she did, then the three of them might have a chance at something beautiful and profound, something extraordinary.

 

            Irene’s flesh had darkened further, deepening to a lovely red color that radiated heat. Even though The Woman’s hips and head were thrown back, obviously enjoying the strikes, Molly had learned through practice when to stop. Irene wasn’t anywhere near as far gone as Molly had been a few nights ago with Sherlock, but if Molly’s grand plans were to come to fruition, Irene couldn’t be descending into subspace.

 

            A grin thrown over her shoulder from around the gag told Molly that Irene understood exactly why the paddling had ceased. Molly returned the wide smile, happy that Irene understood her so well.

 

            “Such a good little kitten,” Molly laid aside the paddle and stroked Irene’s back, running fingers up her spine to the base of her neck and into her dark chocolate colored waves, slowly undoing the gag buckle, careful not to pull any of Irene’s hair.   She touched her lips to the soft spot just behind and below Irene’s right ear. “Did you enjoy that, dear?”

 

            Irene nodded, working her jaw for a few seconds before replying, “Yes, Mistress. That was lovely.”

            Wrapping her fingers around Irene’s waist, Molly pulled her up, and turned them both to face Sherlock. She wasn’t sure what exactly she expected to see, but Molly was pleased with the view. Sherlock’s indifferent mask had fallen away, replaced by dilated pupils, lightly flushed cheeks, and an unmistakable tent in his trousers.   As they met eyes, Sherlock immediately pulled back.

 

            Molly rushed forward, falling to her knees between his legs, one hand reaching up to cup his chin. “Don’t, Sherlock. Don’t pull away. It’s okay to want this. We won’t hurt you.”

 

            “Well,” Irene drawled, coming forward and dropping herself onto Sherlock’s lap. “Molly won’t hurt you,” her hand joined Molly’s so that both were touching his face. “I’ll hurt you just enough to keep you happy.”

 

            Sherlock’s lips curled defensively, but Molly ran her fingers across them before he could form words. “Shhh,” her tone was both soothing and pleading. “If you just let go, you won’t be sorry.”

 

            Irene had draped an arm over Sherlock’s shoulder, and was playing lightly with his open collar. Molly held back a smile as she watched Sherlock’s hand curl around The Woman’s hip. He looked into Molly’s eyes, and Molly was transported back to the night before his Fall, the night he had told her he was dying, that he needed her. Sherlock had never been as vulnerable as in those moments, admitting his fear of losing the small circle of those he loved. The only other time Molly had seen a similar expression was when he identified Irene’s body.

 

            “I don’t know if I can, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes as Irene began to stroke his hair.

 

            “It’s alright, our darling, witty boy,” Irene caressed the curls around his ear as she spoke, no hint of her normal sarcastic playfulness in her voice. “You already belong to us, and we to you.   Earlier tonight you said this was ‘inevitable,’ and I agree. We are all three creatures of extremes, and you won’t be complete until you are both totally dominant and completely dominated. My Mistress Molly, your darling little pathologist, she’s only half of what we need.”

 

            Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, but he did lean his head toward Irene’s touch. “You think I need you, Irene? That I’m incomplete without you?” The question was said with a sigh, but no venom.

 

            Molly felt her breath catch in her chest. It seemed like a moment of infinite possibilities. She looked over at Irene, who gave her a wide smile as she kissed Sherlock’s upper jaw.

 

            “Yes, Sherlock, you do need me,” Irene answered, kissing him between the words. “Because even though you refuse to acknowledge it, you want to be undone, to have all your intellect stripped away so that you can’t use it to defend yourself against that most terrifying of boogeymen, Sentiment.”

 

            Molly could feel Sherlock’s resistance building. She squeezed his knee, rubbing up his inner thigh. “You were willing to risk your life to save those you loved, Sherlock. Think of this as saving yourself.”

 

            Sherlock met Molly’s gaze and frowned. He still hadn’t pulled away from Irene’s kisses. In fact, both his arms were holding her now, forming a low, tight belt across her naked hips. “This is foolish. I don’t _need_ ,”

 

            Irene’s fingers tugged sharply on Sherlock’s curls. “You are a human, Sherlock, not a robot. You need love and affection and sexual release. As fantastic as you are now, as brilliantly as you shine, you are not working at full capacity.”

 

            He raised an eyebrow, turning to face Irene for the first time since she’d sat on his lap. “And you are? You almost died in Karachi. You lost everything due to sentiment.”

 

            She laughed, a deep, sincere sound. “Maybe at the time it seemed like that, but it got me here – at Mistress Molly’s feet, and on your lap. I’d call this a win.” The Woman nuzzled his neck. “You could give it a try, Sherlock. No strings attached. Just tonight. Let me take you over, free you of your worries for a short time. Then, we can all fall into Mistress Molly’s bed and just be.”

 

            The fear was evident in Sherlock’s icy blue eyes. “The only time I’ve just ‘been,’ as you call it, was when I was high.”

 

            Molly smiled against his leg. “Trust me, Sherlock, you can find that peace another way. Trust her. Trust me. Trust yourself. You know you want this, that you’ve wanted this since the day you first met her and she knocked you to the ground, just as I wanted the same thing from the moment I saw you beating a corpse with a riding crop.”

 

            “Listen to the little temptress, witty boy,” Irene purred. “You won’t regret this, and you aren’t obligated to ever do it again if you don’t want.” She gave him a wicked grin. “But you will want.”

 

            Sherlock tipped her chin up, so that their eyes met, and Molly nearly swooned at the matching, gorgeous grins on her lovers’ faces. “Well, Woman, convince me then.”


	16. Irene + Kitchen Utensils = Danger for Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock accepts the ladies' challenge. Irene shows no mercy. Molly might need to beg for some by the end of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, writing this chapter took forever, but now, dear readers, I believe the hardest part is behind me, and the end is in sight. Love it or hate it, still let me know! Kisses to you all.

oOo0oOo Chapter 16 oOo0oOo

_"I'm just a bad girl; that's why we get along._

_Won't make excuses for anything I'm doing wrong._

_I'll pull the trigger in a flash -_

_Watch out, honey, stand back_

_Oooh oooh, what's the fun in playing it safe?_

_Wouldn't you rather misbehave my way?"_

_"Dirty Laundry" - Bitter:Sweet_

 

            Molly felt a rush of euphoria at Sherlock’s words, but she didn’t dare to move or even breathe, for fear of disrupting whatever truce was so delicately balanced in this room. As she watched Irene slide off of Sherlock’s lap, she wondered how this could possibly be real. For so long in her life, Molly had accepted that dreams were just that – not things that actually came true. And although this dream involved sex (gorgeous, steamy, kinky sex), it wasn’t the sight of Irene’s pale hand grasping Sherlock’s wrist and pulling him to his feet that pleased her most. It was the thought, the hope, that something like love might blossom here, or something as close to love as Sherlock would allow.

 

            She kept still, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, watching the detective and The Woman. Sherlock towered over Irene, but her ease, even after having exposed her most vulnerable side, seemed to highlight how uncomfortable Sherlock was, even fully dressed.

 

            Irene took a step back, her head tilted up, her scarlet lips spread wide. “Whatever shall I do with you, Sherlock? So many delicious possibilities, I can hardly choose.”

 

            Sherlock rolled his eyes in obvious defiance of any overtly submissive behavior. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to make this easy for you.”

 

            “Oh, witty boy,” Irene laughed, walking past him toward the kitchen, pale hips and red buttocks swaying. Her tone was one of exasperated amusement, like a mother would use for a habitually naughty child.

 

            His head turned to follow Irene’s path, confusion flitting across his expressive face for a second. Molly, too, watched. Although there might be a handful of kitchen items that could be converted into “toys,” Molly honestly had no idea what Irene was thinking. The view into the kitchen area was partially obstructed, so it was impossible to know what The Woman was planning.

 

            In a few moments, she was back, carrying a tea tray covered with a towel. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Irene’s smile stretched even wider, now full-blown self-satisfaction. She put the tray down on the chair she had been bending over only a short time ago and faced Sherlock again.

 

            With her small, red tipped fingers, Irene slowly unbuttoned his shirt, parting the snowy white fabric to uncover his pale, marble hard chest. “My, you’ve put on some muscle,” she murmured as she unfastened the last button, made quick work of the cufflinks, and let the bespoke shirt fall to the floor, kicking it aside without a downward glance.

 

            She circled him, running her hands over his chest and back, her sharp eyes taking in all the new marks Molly had noticed a few nights before. Sherlock’s shoulders were tense, his entire body held taut.

            “Admiring your inadvertent work?” he taunted.

 

            Irene shrugged, replying, “All of our actions, inadvertent and deliberate, are entwined. Being so skilled at identifying the slenderest of connections, you should know that, Sherlock.”

 

            “Not all connections are worth pursuing, Woman.” His tone was sharp, decidedly uncooperative.

 

            “And you are especially wary of any that remind you there is a heart in here,” Irene’s fingers danced over the left side of his chest.

 

            Sherlock glanced down at her hand with a smirk. “It’s purely for circulatory purposes, I assure you.”

 

            Faster than Molly’s eyes could follow, Irene’s hand flew up and slapped Sherlock across the cheek. “Don’t worry, witty boy, I’ll be sure to get your blood flowing properly.”

 

            A small, red handprint blossomed across his cheek as Sherlock slowly turned his face back to Irene. Even from a few feet away, Molly could see the widening pupils, and an expression that was fighting between desire and anger. In contrast, Irene was the very picture of wicked delight.

 

            “Mmmm,” she licked her lips. “I knew it would be even better to slap that face bare-handed.” Both of The Woman’s hands slid up to his shoulders, and pressed. “Down, boy.”

 

            Molly watched her two lovers lock eyes, and wondered if Sherlock would bow out. There were several seconds of tense silence that seemed to stretch out interminably. Then, face blank, Sherlock sank gracefully to his knees, his dark curls falling forward as he bowed his head.

 

            Irene bent forward and gave him a hard push backwards, knocking him flat on the floor. She immediately straddled him. “God, I’ve wanted to be back on top of you for ages!” Rolling her hips over his groin, she chuckled. “Seems like the feeling is mutual.”

 

            “It’s a physiological res-” Sherlock’s retort was cut off by another smack from Irene.

 

            “Hush! I didn’t give you permission to speak, boy,” The Woman’s expression had turned serious and her tone brooked no argument. Molly felt chills down her spine, chills that wrapped around her hips and settled in her cunt. This was better than the best dream she’d imagined.

 

            Sherlock looked furious, but kept silent. Irene reached under the tea towel and pulled out a length of cling film, twisted to act as a rope.

 

            “Now, be a good boy, and stay still,” she smiled as she moved up his body, pulling his arms above his head as she did so. She settled at his shoulders, her cunt almost brushing his lips as she leaned forward to secure his hands together, and then to the leg of the green chair. “This isn’t nearly as sturdy as what I would like to use, but it will do in a pinch.”

 

Irene glanced down with a stern expression. “Don’t try to get out, or you will be punished.” She held eye contact, waiting for his response. It didn’t come.

 

“In my experience, the most stubborn are the most scared,” Irene murmured. “How frightened you must be, dear boy.” She pushed back, sliding her body down his torso, pulling his hips downward as she did so, and stretching his arms taut.   The elongated line of the muscles in his arms and along his ribs was beautiful to behold.

 

He still didn’t respond, and Irene’s smile widened. She gave a vicious twist to both his nipples, and Sherlock made a hissing noise. Molly winced in sympathy.

 

“You must want to be beaten badly, boy. The more you resist, the harder I’ll come at you,” Irene warned. “Of course, that seems to be what you want. You don’t want to believe that you have a choice in the matter. If you can argue that I _made_ you submit, then it isn’t truly submission, is it? You can keep your emotions tucked away, and blame it all on biology.”

 

She tapped a red nail against her redder lips, adopting a thoughtful look.   Mentally, Molly agreed with Irene’s assessment. Getting Sherlock to play along, truly, would take finesse.

 

Irene reached under the tea towel again, this time taking out an ancient pastry wheel that had belonged to Molly’s nana, used to cut countless pie crusts and noodle strips, thinned down to rather sharp edge. Molly had sliced her fingers more than once while washing it.

 

Her free hand tangled into the back of Sherlock’s curls, forcing his head back. “If you don’t surrender, there is no point to this. I want to hurt you, witty boy, but I won’t damage you.” As she spoke, she pressed the wheel into the tender flesh where his shoulder met his arm, gliding it up toward his elbow, and leaving a raised red line behind.

 

Sherlock’s breathing caught, and Molly thought it was more from Irene’s words than her actions. “How can I trust you?” he whispered, his gaze directed away from her.

 

“Molly trusts me,” Irene gently pushed his chin, catching his eyes with her own. “Molly loves you, Sherlock,”

 

“That isn’t an argument in her favor,” he snapped, interrupting with anger rising in his voice.

 

Irene, Molly noted, seemed to understand that his anger always spilled out when he felt most vulnerable. The Woman stroked his hair gently. “How many people must adore you before you recognize it as truth? How can such a brilliant mind be so willfully blind? You are so amazing, Sherlock Holmes, and yet so bloody stupid.”

 

He arched a brow. “Was that meant to be comforting?”

 

She laughed. “Get your comfort from Molly, you prat.   From me, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

 

A grin played around the edges of his mouth, and Sherlock sighed in what sounded suspiciously like resignation.

 

“Now, be a good boy and say, ‘Yes, Mistress,’” her expression hardened.

 

Sherlock looked up at her, his smile gone. “Yes, Mistress,” that silky baritone rumbled, no trace of mockery in his tone.

 

Molly thought she might have a spontaneous orgasm. Apparently, Irene felt the same because she clenched her thighs around Sherlock’s hips, grinding into him. She resumed her work with the pastry wheel, right at the inside of the elbow.

 

“This skin is so sensitive, isn’t it darling boy?” Irene bent her head forward, her hard nipples brushing lightly against his bare chest.

 

She brought her lips nearly to his own, and spoke, this time in a soft, sultry tone. “Especially for a former drug addict. This was your preferred injection site. I touch it, even casually, and you remember, don’t you? That secret room in your mind palace slides open, and you recall the euphoria, the bliss of being free, of not having to compulsively analyze Every. Little. Thing.”

 

He shut his eyes as if in pain. “Yes.”

 

A sharp slap brought his eyes open again. “Yes, Mistress,” he corrected himself, the words coming out with a strangled sound.

 

“I know how hard it is to give yourself over to another, Sherlock,” Irene found the most prominent vein and traced it with the small metal wheel, pressing hard enough to make him give a small gasp.

 

“Your track marks have faded, so I’m replacing them with my own. You can get off on the power Molly gives you, but that’s still rooted in control.” She increased the force, and Molly saw a thin line of blood welling under the shiny circle.

Irene and Sherlock were both breathing heavily, and though her hand continued to move the pastry wheel, their eyes were focused on each other. Sherlock seemed almost hypnotized by Irene’s words.   “The reason I scare you so, boy, is that you can’t ever hope to control me. I am the itch under your skin, that horribly delicious burn spreading through your veins. I will take your control, that icy exterior, and dash it upon the rocks.” She gave a cruel grin. “And you will come back for more because you love it when I beat you.”

 

Sherlock shuddered, his entire body shaking under Irene as she quickly leaned over his arm and licked the line of blood.   Her lips now truly the shade of blood, she threw the wheel aside, gathered his face in both hands, and kissed him deeply as she rocked her pelvis against his.  

 

Irene pulled back, laughing when Sherlock tried to follow her. “So glad we’ve established the order of things, witty boy.” The Woman swung off of him, and rolled him onto his side, leaving his arms slightly over-extended, and now twisted into an awkward position.

 

She grinned at Molly as she rose, walking to the bedroom and quickly returning with the very riding crop Sherlock had used on Molly.

 

“Now, I’m not the type to practice mercy, so I’ll need you to give me a safe word.”

 

Molly could see only the side of Sherlock’s face, but the tilt of his lips betrayed his vulnerability. “Moriarty.” It was barely a whisper, but it carried through the room.

 

“Fine,” Irene agreed, her demeanor softening for a few seconds. She knelt behind his prone form, and rained kisses lightly across the curve of his ribcage, then struck him between the shoulder blades with the crop.

 

A huff of breath was Sherlock’s only response. Irene clearly took this as a challenge, and the next strike was significantly harder.

 

Sherlock’s head reared back, and his eyes closed, but he didn’t make a sound.

 

The Woman paused for a moment, then unbuttoned his trousers, pushing them down over his hips, not completely off, but far enough to bare the upper curve of his buttocks, and those lovely hip bones. Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “Ahh,”

 

“So, to get a reaction out of you, I need to undress you?” Irene teased. “Perhaps we should be playing strip poker instead of Whip-The-Petulant-Detective.”

 

Irene continued her assault, interspersing loving caresses with strikes of increasing force. Welts were rising all over Sherlock’s back, and his erection was straining against the fabric of his trousers.

 

“You’re being such a brave one, witty boy. No groaning, no whimpering,” Irene murmured as she flicked her wrist expertly and delivered a stinging blow to his left hip.

 

She put the crop to the side and lay beside him, draping her arm and leg over him, her naked form pressing onto his abused flesh. Her lips curled into a smile as she spoke into his ear. “Is that because you know you deserved every single strike and a thousand more for all your bad behavior?”

 

He drew in a deep breath, leaning back into Irene’s embrace, his muscles relaxing in a way Molly rarely saw them do. “Yes, Mistress.”

 

Irene moved her leg against his groin, and Sherlock let out a low moan. “You shout how superior you are from the rooftops, but the truth is you fear there is something wrong with you, something missing. You are so used to pushing away anything approaching an emotion that you’ve forgotten how to process one.”

 

The Woman’s hand joined her leg, firmly rubbing his erection. “Don’t worry. We can fix this. I can help you feel all kinds of marvelous things, darling boy. ” She kissed his shoulder, her lips traveling over the red, raised marks left from the crop. “And the best of all will be the sensation that you are safe, that you are home, and that you don’t need to deduce a damned thing to be loved.”

 

“Irene, I can’t-” Sherlock began, his voice breaking.

 

She grabbed his chin, her brow furrowed in anger. “You can, and you will. Now, say it.”

 

“Yes, Mistress,” the words seemed to be nearly torn from his throat, as if he were saying them against his will. Still, he didn’t protest further or move away from The Woman’s touch.

 

“I know this will take time, and your basic nature won’t change, witty boy,” The Woman sat up and began to untangle the cling film binding from Sherlock’s hands. “And that’s fine. I’ll be here to give you the benefit of correction as needed.”

 

“But, for now, I think you’ve earned a reward.” Pressing her lips to his temple, Irene massaged his wrists as she freed them. She turned to Molly, and smiled. “Join us?”

 

Molly nodded, coming forward to help Irene up, then turning with Irene to pull Sherlock to his feet. Her doctor’s eye noted the lines from the pastry wheel were no deeper than a light scratch from Toby, minus the bacteria from his claws, and though the marks on his back would be there for a few days, Irene had not struck with enough force to do any lasting damage.

 

“Let’s go to the bedroom. I believe we said that we would just ‘be’ there together.” Molly linked hands with both Sherlock and Irene, pulling them toward her room. “No titles. Just Molly, Irene, and Sherlock.”

 

“That sounds delightful,” Irene looked relaxed.

 

Sherlock looked slightly panicked, but followed nonetheless. Irene sat on the bed, tugging Sherlock forward by the waist of his trousers. “Don’t you think it’s time these came off?”

 

“I second that,” Molly chimed in, thinking she sounded ridiculously happy, but not about to be ashamed that she was enjoying a fantasy come true. She stood behind Sherlock, pulling the pants down as Irene unfastened them. The marks on Sherlock’s back were undoubtedly arousing, making Molly think of what it would feel like to have him use a crop on her, or how it would feel to use one on Irene. But this wasn’t the time for that. She placed her hands gently on his hips, and was surprised when his hands came up to cover her own.

 

His hands were beautiful. Long, thin fingers that could work with delicate evidence or pluck violin strings with perfect staccato technique. Or wield a whip or fire a gun. Molly looked down at them, noting how much larger they were than hers or Irene’s. His presence tonight had been so muted, so subdued, that the larger-than-life idea of Sherlock that normally loomed in her brain wasn’t fitting with the man currently before her.

 

There were fingers in her hair, Irene’s, and Sherlock was now facing her, but it took Molly a moment to come out of her thoughts and realize that her two lovers were undressing her. Sherlock was lifting her shirt over her head and Irene was pushing her pants and knickers down. Molly mechanically stepped out of the fabric.

 

“Breathe, Molly Hooper,” she could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice though he was speaking into her hair as he kissed her brow. “Be here. Now. With _us_.”

 

Molly looked up and saw Sherlock was staring at Irene, no hostility or guardedness in his eyes. Irene pushed against Molly’s back, forcing Molly into Sherlock’s front. Every part of Molly was on fire as Irene leaned over her shoulder and kissed Sherlock.   If watching the two of them was arousing, _feeling_ the two of them moving against her was indescribable. Her cunt was throbbing, her nipples hard as pebbles, and she felt as if the slightest touch between her legs would send her over the edge into full-blown, so-good-you-lose-consciousness-ecstasy, but more overwhelming than any physical sensation was how her heart felt – like it could possibly spontaneously combust from the joy she was experiencing.

 

They fell back on the bed in a tangle of limbs, Molly still in the middle, and she found that both her lovers preferred it that way. Though they kissed one another freely, and touched and stroked the length of each other’s bodies, neither Irene nor Sherlock seemed to desire to go further than that. Instead, they focused most of their attentions on Molly, and if Molly had ever thought it was a good idea to have these two on the same side, she quickly was disabused of that notion.

 

Over the course of what seemed the entire night, her two lovers traveled over her body, playing a game of one-up. If Sherlock was kissing one side of her neck, Irene was on the other side, biting it. When Irene slid a hand over Molly’s breast, Sherlock rolled the nipple between his fingers. They didn’t hesitate to slap away the each other’s hands, though more than once, Irene grabbed Sherlock and kissed him passionately, and he responded enthusiastically. Occasionally, they would join forces to coax an additional orgasm from Molly’s exhausted flesh, such as when Sherlock pulled Molly onto his cock, and Irene straddled Sherlock as well, facing Molly, using her fingers to stroke Molly’s clit while kissing her.

 

Eventually, so sated that her skin felt like a warm, glowing, euphoric blanket wrapped around her soul, Molly gently slapped their hands and tongues away.

 

“Bed,” she pleaded.

 

“We are in bed,” Sherlock arched a brow, his voice somewhat muffled by the fact his mouth was full of Molly’s cunt.

 

“Sherlock’s right,” Irene added, still pumping her fingers in and out of Molly under Sherlock’s lips.

 

Molly groaned. “Can you hear yourselves, agreeing? Surely you must realize that means you are both delirious and need sleep. Preferably at least twelve hours.”

 

Sherlock made an impatient, scoffing sound. “Why in the world would a person voluntarily be unconscious for half of a day? That is a waste of-”

 

Irene’s fingers, sticky with Molly, stopped Sherlock’s mouth. He quickly opened his lips and Irene smiled as he licked her fingers clean. “You don’t have to sleep that long. In fact, if you’re up first that means you must procure us all breakfast.”

 

“I don’t eat-” Sherlock started to protest.

 

“For those who do eat, Sherlock,” Molly mumbled, sleep threatening the clarity of her speech. “Now. Here. Come. Bed. Sleep.”

 

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering fashion, grumbling something about Molly having already come multiple times in this bed, and crawled up the length of Molly’s body. Irene grinned and followed, surprising him by placing him in the middle. Before he could say a word, she put her hand over his mouth again.

 

“Hush, witty boy. You need cuddles. Enjoy it and sleep.” Irene draped an arm over his hip.

 

Molly put her arm over Sherlock’s hip, found Irene’s hand, and held it tightly. As she drifted off, she could have sworn she heard Sherlock whisper, “Yes, Mistress.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

           


	17. Breakfast is Served, with a Side of Mycroft and Plenty of Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tells Mycroft exactly what she thinks of him. Mycroft returns the favor. Irene lets Sherlock take the lead and sexy shower times ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...about that smooth sailing as far as chapter production....well, I can only say that I didn't mean to lie. I don't know why these chapters take so long! Thanks to all you readers who are in for the long haul. Also, let me say that I love the character of Mycroft, and the way Mark Gatiss portrays him. I just hate the way he treats Sherlock, and that came through in Molly's words to him.

oOo0oOo – Chapter 17 – oOo0oOo

 

            To Molly’s great surprise, she woke only a bit after six in the morning, and found both Sherlock and Irene still asleep.   Given her track record, Molly had been afraid that when she opened her eyes, either one or both of them would be gone, but apparently they had been more exhausted than they had let on. The Woman’s red nails curled possessively over Sherlock’s naked hip, her head resting on the curve of his shoulder. There wasn’t space to slide even a sheet of paper between their bodies, with Irene’s front molded to Sherlock’s back. The sound of their calm, slow breathing indicated that they were in a state of rest deeper than Molly would have thought they would risk around one another.

 

            She slipped out of the bed and grabbed some clean clothes. After a quick shower, Molly walked a few blocks to her favorite guilty pleasure.   Over the last year, she had spent one morning off a week in one of the Orange Rose bakery’s over stuffed chairs, sipping hot, sweet ginger tea, eating a caramel pecan sticky bun, and trying to keep the pages of her newspaper from being cemented together by furiously licking her fingers between bites.

 

            There was already a line at the counter, so Molly glanced at the menu, wondering what to take back to Irene and Sherlock. She sincerely doubted Sherlock would touch anything covered in caramel. Maybe just a plain croissant?

 

            “I took the liberty of ordering an assortment of baked goods for you and your…house guests, Dr. Hooper.” The exasperated voice sounded from behind her, off to the right.

 

            Molly forced her facial muscles into a calm expression before she turned on her heel and faced a rather peeved looking Mycroft Holmes sitting, back ramrod straight, at one of the small tables near the door. _But seriously_ , she thought, _when doesn’t he look like it is a bother to be alive?_

 

            “I thought you didn’t deign to appear in public, Mr. Holmes,” Molly took the offensive immediately. There was no way she was letting Mycroft ruin the start of something so amazing. Her feelings toward him got chillier the more she realized how much his behavior had influenced Sherlock.

 

            Mycroft’s lips curled into a thin, disapproving smile. “You must think I dislike myself intensely if you believe I have any desire whatsoever to see even the aftermath of the sordid activities that occurred in your flat last night.”

 

            “And this morning,” Molly corrected, reaching into the box on the table and pulling out a pain au chocolat. “Your younger brother has incredible stamina.” She took a bite of pastry and grinned. “Thanks for providing us with more fuel.”

 

            His lips nearly disappeared as his mouth moved into an expression somewhere between a snarl and a sneer. “You are something of an unpredictable variable, Dr. Hooper. Just when I think I have you figured out, you do something that is either insanely stupid or incredibly cunning. I can’t decide which I prefer to believe. Either way, the fact that you have managed to gain control over my brother, even temporarily, is-”

 

            “It isn’t about control!” Molly protested, suppressing the urge to throw scalding tea in Mycroft’s face. He brought out violent tendencies she didn’t know she had.

           

            “Really?” Mycroft lifted a brow. “In the past three years, you have taken as lovers three of the most dangerous and brilliant minds this country has seen. You managed to manipulate both Irene Adler _and_ Sherlock Holmes into your bed, simultaneously. I’m wondering if you didn’t learn from Moriarty by…” he gave a sniff, “osmosis.”

 

            “Iceman is the wrong name for you because it implies a baseline humanity,” Molly kept her voice low, though she wanted to scream. “I don’t think you’re human at all. If you were, you would recognize that love, no matter what form it takes on the surface, is always about trust.   And it absolutely kills you that your own brother, that unique and beautiful mind you keep trying to turn into a weapon, doesn’t trust you in the slightest, which also means he’ll never love you. You think if you can control him, you’ll have his love. But you couldn’t be more wrong.”

 

            The impassive mask that dropped down over Mycroft’s face sent off warning bells in Molly’s head. His calm was much more dangerous than his anger. “Dr. Hooper, don’t presume to understand the first thing about my motivations. I’ve seen your I.Q. scores.”

 

            Even though her higher thinking skills were screaming at her to remain silent, Molly was too angry to not respond. “And marks on paper allowed you to judge all my limits and capabilities? You might see far-reaching patterns and minute details, but I see _you_ , Mycroft Holmes. I see a genius, who, as a child, developed a possessive obsession with his younger brother, a sweet, emotional boy who sailed the seven seas with his dog, Redbeard, as his first mate.”

 

            Mycroft’s face had flushed, and his lips gone white from being pressed together. _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , Molly thought as she continued.  

 

           “You couldn’t stand that he would want anyone, anything, or any idea other than you and the logic you worshipped. You took a loving, vulnerable child, an innocent, kind boy, and you tried to make him the same as you – devoid of sentiment. You turned all the right emotional screws, hit on every hidden fear and vulnerability he had. You got so far into his brain, into his psyche, that you would have succeeded, except for one basic truth -” Molly stood and grabbed the pastry box from the table. “Sherlock isn’t the sociopath – you are.”

 

           Mycroft’s hand shot out and fastened tightly around her wrist. “Your license isn’t in psychiatry, Dr. Hooper. Your area is death, and you’d be wise to remember that, or you might become more of an expert than you intend.”

 

           “Thank you for the breakfast. I’ll be sure to tell Sherlock how kind you were.” Molly yanked her hand free and walked away quickly without looking back.

 

                                       -oOo0oOo-

 

         Molly tried to regain her composure as she walked to her flat, but by the time she opened her door, she was still shaken. That argument was surely worse than breaking his nose – she had exposed his soft underbelly, something he liked to pretend didn’t exist.  Still, her instincts told her that if she kept quiet about the nature of her conversation with Mycroft that he wouldn’t act against her, at least not immediately. She took a deep breath and locked the door behind her. As she turned, she found herself nose to collarbone with Sherlock.

 

       “Excellent,” he took the orange box from her hand. “I am surprisingly peckish.” He paused, glancing at Molly’s face, reading it despite her attempt at a poker face. “Who has upset you?”

 

      “I suspect your dear brother,” Irene called from her seat in the green chair. “I doubt he approves of -” she gestured to the two of them and herself, “whatever it is that we are.” She stood, walked over to Sherlock, opened the box, and pulled out a sticky bun, pink tongue darting out to lick the dripping caramel from the side.

 

      Sherlock made a short, annoyed sound. “My brother doesn’t truly approve of anything other than fine cuisine and the re-establishment of the global British empire.” He narrowed his eyes, looking back at Molly, his face taking on the expression he wore when deducing information best left dormant.

 

      “He threatened you, didn’t he?” Sherlock’s tone was deadly, wrapped in calm.

 

      Molly frowned. “Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t scare me…much.”

 

      “Let’s just have tea and these lovely pastries before we get all serious and threatening,” Irene laid out plates on the table and set water to boil in the kettle.

 

      “Sounds lovely,” Molly took down the teapot and filled its metal leaf strainer with a strong breakfast blend.  

 

     Sherlock began to pace, his gaze unfocused, his mind far away. Molly sighed and left the teapot on the counter, going to stand behind Irene, wrapping her arms around The Woman’s waist, resting her chin on her shoulder.

 

     “He’s already gone,” Irene observed, squeezing Molly’s hands. “That poor boy doesn’t give himself a moment’s rest.”

 

     Molly grinned and kissed Irene’s neck. She still smelled of the three of them. “Not unless you make him.”

 

    “Or you lure him,” Irene laughed, turning to brush her lips lightly against Molly’s.

 

    “I can hear you both,” came an annoyed response from across the room. “I am capable of thinking and hearing at the same time.”

 

    “But not talking and eating,” Irene replied. “Sit down, witty boy, and eat something. I’ll pour the tea.”

 

    Sherlock gave her a mutinous look but took a seat at the table. Molly did as well, and caught his hand, lacing her fingers through his own. “You have been gone for two years, Sherlock. You dismantled an entire multinational criminal organization. Surely that merits a moment to breathe. Don’t worry about Mycroft. ”

 

   “Molly, you know I don’t handle threats well,” Sherlock sounded angry, but he didn’t drop her hand.

 

   “Then find a case, something to get your mind off your overbearing older brother for a while,” Molly said, smiling at the petulant expression on his face. He still was such an emotional child. “But wait until after breakfast.”

 

   “Breakfast and a very thorough…cleaning… in the shower,” Irene corrected, bringing the tea to the table, her pupils wide.

 

   A dark brow arched and a hint of smile played at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Are you propositioning me, Woman?” His fingers traced light circles into Molly’s palm, making her shiver.

 

   “Not just you, witty boy,” Irene gave Molly a smoldering glance that went straight to her groin.

 

   Molly glanced at the steam issuing from the spout of the teapot. “I’ve always preferred my tea a bit tepid,” she rose, pulling her jumper over her head. “And I think I feel dirty.”

 

   As she passed him, Sherlock pulled her into his lap, kissing her forehead, then her temple, down the line of her jaw to her neck, before leaning forward to take a croissant out of the box.

 

   “I like my tea very hot,” Sherlock spoke into her ear, his voice a purring sound that made Molly’s whole body ache. “And you, my filthy little pathologist, need more than a shower to get clean. You said we should have breakfast first, so we shall.”

 

   He held up his cup and Irene filled it, followed by Molly’s, then her own. The Woman placed a sticky bun on Molly’s plate and slid it toward Sherlock, then sat back in her chair with an amused smile.

 

   Molly swallowed a bit. Irene hadn’t seen her submit to Sherlock, and the situation felt so sexually charged that Molly couldn’t really focus on mundane things like eating or drinking.

 

   “Do I need to feed you?” Sherlock asked quietly after a moment, the arm wrapped around her, tightening at her waist.   He reached out with one of those long, slender fingers and dragged it through the caramel and nut topping, bringing his finger up to her already parted lips.

 

   “Suck,” he ordered, hunger that had nothing to do with pastries in his pale blue eyes.

 

   And Molly did, slowly and completely cleaning every trace of stickiness from his finger with her lips and tongue. She could feel his cock hardening in his trousers against her hip, and she wiggled instinctively. His hand was pulled away in a flash and she received a smart slap on the side of her arse that wasn’t pressed against him. She moaned before she could even process she was making a sound.

 

   “Filthy, indeed,” Sherlock grinned, for once his face bare of any attempt at controlling his reactions, unguarded, and so beautiful.

 

   Molly sighed in appreciation and looked over at Irene, who wore the same expression Molly imagined on her own face. To see Sherlock relaxed and happy, even for a moment, was such a rare treat.

 

   The hint of boyish joy faded quickly, though, to be replaced by a determined, lustful smirk. “You like your sweets, don’t you?”

 

   “Yes,” Molly gave him her widest eyes, her most innocent visage.

 

   His hand smacked her again, harder this time, his fingers biting into the stinging flesh afterwards, keeping the pain at the front of her mind. “Showing off for company, my little pathologist? That will bring consequences, my Molly. Yes,?”

 

   With a swallow, and a sideways glance at Irene, who smiled not mockingly, but encouragingly, Molly reminded herself that this was about trust, about love, and she was the only one who hadn’t exposed a submissive side as of yet. Ironic, since she was the one who anyone looking in on this situation would assume was the most submissive of all. Mousy Molly. But that was in the past. Now she was Brave Molly.

 

  “Yes, Master,” Molly spoke the words clearly, without a trace of shyness. What she had with Irene couldn’t be undermined by this, just as watching Sherlock submit to The Woman hadn’t changed his ability to make Molly tremble at the sound of his voice, let alone the feel of his hands.

 

            “Better,” Sherlock murmured, and gave her another rather hard tap on the arse. “Though I think you were hesitating for a moment,” he tipped her chin up and back, looking into her eyes. “Don’t you trust me, Molly Hooper? The Woman and I both trust you, implicitly.”

 

            Molly rose to the challenge. She wouldn’t be the one who bowed out just because such a display of trust was frightening. If Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler could make the leap of faith, in front of each other no less, than so could she. _Love is the bravest act of all_ , she told herself.

 

   “I love you, Sherlock,” there were tears in her eyes, but she met his gaze, allowing the nervousness to well up and spill over – not fighting it, working through it.  

 

   “One can love without trust,” he frowned.

 

   “Not real love,” Molly replied, her tone fiercer than she had intended.    

 

   He stared into her eyes for a long moment with a haunted look, then smiled, not at her, but at Irene. “Isn’t our Molly the loveliest?”

 

   Irene watched them with a lustful expression. “Without a doubt.”

 

   Sherlock looked back at Molly, and she could see a plan forming in his mind. He rose, pulling Molly up into his arms easily as he did so.

 

   “Woman? I’ve reconsidered breakfast. Food is boring. Do you think you can bear to watch me take the lead?” He called over his shoulder as he walked towards the bathroom.

 

  “Perhaps with the right incentive,” Irene teased as she followed them. “I don’t find chocolate croissants boring, you see.”

 

    “Molly’s head between your legs?” He offered, opening the door and carrying Molly in sideways.

 

    “Yes, that will work,” The Woman said, adding, with a grin and a cheeky salute, “Sir.”

 

   Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh though there was a clearly visible upturn to his mouth. He set Molly down. “Run the shower, Molly. Nice and hot.”

 

   Molly did as she was told, bending over to adjust the taps, though she wondered about the logistics of this situation. Three adult bodies was quite a bit for her small bathroom, let alone the shower.

 

   Fingers traced the curve of her spine, trailing on either side of her vertebrae. “Don’t worry, my little pathologist, there won’t be any space between us.” Sherlock’s tone seemed to drop even lower as his fingers hooked under both the waistband of her pants and her knickers and began to pull. “Besides, you love a tight fit, don’t you? I’m sure The Woman will have no complaints, and you aren’t allowed any, unless you care to use a safe word.”

 

  “No, Master,” Molly swallowed, feeling the steam from the water rise to coat her already flushed face. In contrast, cool air surrounded her bottom as Sherlock made quick work of her remaining clothes, gently lifting each foot to strip off her socks. Something about the removal of her socks, such non-sexy articles, touched her heart. It was mundane, an action a more permanent lover would take, not a one-night stand one was dying to impress.

 

  He held her foot in his hand, tracing the sole, and then, unexpectedly, she felt his warm lips ever so softly kiss the pad of her foot, right below her big toe. Tears were welling again, because this was not dominance or submission, it was simply affection, deep and abiding. And for Sherlock to do such a thing in front of Irene? Gentle and sweet was usually his style, which made it that much more meaningful.

 

   “Stop. Thinking.” And he was back to his old, domineering self, dropping her foot and pushing her forward into the shower.

 

   Molly moved to the back, to allow room for the others. Sherlock and Irene didn’t follow immediately, though. They stood, facing each other, Sherlock in his pants, Irene in his shirt, only the button at her navel fastened, her mostly exposed chest and pale, shapely legs making the plain white Oxford into a daring negligee.

 

   Irene raised a hand toward the shower in a ‘you first’ gesture. “You wanted the lead, witty boy?”

 

   Sherlock gave a dark smile, an expression that belonged on a big, bad wolf from a fairy tale. He pulled Irene forward by the collar of his shirt and held her face against his, seeming to breathe her in. “Indeed, Madam, though I’m sure you’ll have it out of my hide at a later date.”

 

   “Would you expect anything less?” Irene laughed, her lips brushing his as she spoke, her tone as light and cheerful as his was serious. “Would you _want_ anything less?”

 

   “No, Mistress,” the words were spoken so softly Molly had to strain to hear them above the water streaming from the showerhead. She watched a moment of tenderness pass between the two, Irene cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck, their lips touching, their breath mingling, both sets of eyes closed for a few seconds of simply being.

 

   Molly knew Sherlock wouldn’t stay. She knew it might be weeks before he called again, but if they could give him this respite when he visited, however infrequently, then Molly’s heart would rest easy, satisfied that Sherlock knew he was loved and accepted, at least in the confines of this flat.

 

   She saw the moment when they both pulled back, their masks of cool indifference dropping back down before they opened their eyes. How alike they were in so many ways, Molly thought, struck anew at how amazing it was that she had both of them, right now.

 

   “I believe I promised you some time between our sweet girl’s legs?” Sherlock unbuttoned Irene’s single closure and slipped his shirt from her shoulders. “I will be a gentleman for once and say ‘Ladies first’.”

 

   Irene took a hair tie from the small bowl on the sink and pulled her dark hair back into a messy bun. “How kind of you, Sir,” she grinned, stepping into the shower, and immediately covering Molly’s face with kisses.

 

   Molly sighed with pleasure at the feel of Irene’s breasts and hips pressing into her own, The Woman’s lips moving to her ear to whisper, “I love you.”

 

   “And I love you,” Molly whispered back, though Irene’s mouth was already sliding down her sternum to her stomach.

 

   A large, strong hand shot out to hold her face, forcing her mouth tightly closed. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to speak, darling.”

 

   Molly felt a thrill run through her, warming the inside of her cunt the way the water warmed her skin. Irene had reached that delicate area, and was sucking marks on the inside of her thigh, making Molly want to lean closer and pull away at the same time. She bit her lip, trying to stay still and silent.

 

   Sherlock watched her intently, “You try so hard to please, darling,” he shook his head in wonder, kissing her gently at each temple, even as his fingers kept a firm, almost bruising, hold on her chin and mouth. “And you do please me, but I don’t want to hear anything except screams of pleasure coming out of this little mouth, and I don’t want you to move an inch. Is that clear?”

 

    As she fought back the urge to wrap her fingers in Irene’s hair and push The Woman’s tongue deeper inside cunt, Molly managed to nod against his hand.

 

     “Good girl,” Sherlock purred, relaxing his hand, allowing it to drop to her throat, two of his fingertips resting lightly on her carotid artery. “Good, filthy girl, who gets excited when roughly handled by her Master.”

 

            Irene made a sound like a laugh and the vibrations against Molly’s clitoris were enough to send all the muscles in her pelvis into spasm. She felt a desire to let go, to twist and shake and writhe against The Woman, but Sherlock’s gaze held her still, and as she opened her mouth to moan, his grip on her throat tightened. He applied the perfect amount of pressure at the exactly right moment, and Molly, who had never considered breath play, somehow managed to scream despite a lack of steady air supply, her entire body collapsing downwards as her legs simply stopped working, sucking in great mouthfuls of air as Sherlock released her.

 

            Sherlock caught Irene and pulled her back, allowing Molly to fall down without colliding into The Woman. Molly watched Irene turn to face him, noting in blissful haze that Irene’s hand immediately encircled Sherlock’s cock.

 

            Somehow managing to look lustful and disdainful at the same time, Sherlock looked down at her hand, then arched a brow at her. “It appears you’ve also perfected the choke hold.”

 

            “A girl must needs have many skills in her repertoire,” Irene’s smile was playful, less dominant than Sherlock (and Molly) seemed to have expected, because his face took on a confused expression while Irene continued to move her hand up and down, slowly, then faster and faster, until Sherlock’s head was thrown back against the tiles, one hand on Irene’s shoulder, the other on her wrist, as though he wanted to push her away, but couldn’t bring himself to do so.

 

            With her free hand, Irene took his hand from her shoulder and held it, not breaking her pace or rhythm. “Sweet, witty boy, an orgasm isn’t a betrayal of your brain. Relax and let yourself come.” She raised his hand to her lips. “You’ll be glad you did.”

 

            Sherlock groaned and did as Irene suggested, coming with a quiet intensity that gave him the look of a saint in ecstasy. Molly sighed, smiling as Irene stroked his arms and chest, allowing him to come back to himself slowly.

 

            After a few moments, Sherlock opened his eyes, gave Molly a brief smirk, and picked Irene up, bringing her back against the tile, her legs coming up to wrap around his waist out of instinct.

 

            “Who’s making a power play now?” Irene asked, slightly breathless.

            “Hush,” Sherlock gently mocked, stealing one of The Woman’s favorite words as he pushed two fingers into her, using his thumb to deliver the barest of flicks to her clitoris.

 

            “Oh,” Irene exhaled more than spoke, her eyelashes fluttering as Sherlock ground her into the wall, his fingers and sultry, determined gaze pinning her in place as efficiently as his hips.

 

            Molly knew exactly how those long, slender fingers felt, how the scars and calluses from years of careless handling of caustic chemicals and decades of plucking and fingering violin strings could pull and rub just so against the ridges inside a woman, how the length of his middle finger could stretch to find the special, slightly spongy spot high inside the front vaginal wall and leaving one seeing stars, while using that brilliant opposable thumb to rub, tap, and pluck at the little nub until a girl needed to leave her body because such pleasure couldn’t be contained – it spread outward like a supernova.

 

            He was perfectly calm and absolutely relentless, not moving anywhere except in his hand, and Molly thought she might have come from watching Irene’s release play across her beautiful face if she hadn’t just exhausted all the muscles in her cunt a few minutes earlier. As it was, Molly felt what must have been sympathy contractions as Irene came, biting at Sherlock’s collarbone as she did so.

 

            “Not quite a pound of flesh,” he murmured, wincing as Irene finally pulled back, revealing a livid red mark that would surely bruise.

 

            The Woman stretched, lowering her legs, which barely reached the bottom of the tub because Sherlock still held her up. She licked the mark then pulled his head down for kiss. “Excellent work, witty boy, I should have known those fingers would be just as clever as that grey matter between your ears.”

 

            “Indeed, it doesn’t do to underestimate one’s adversaries, even in something so pleasant as this,” Sherlock lowered her, then bent to offer a hand to Molly, pulling her up to his side so quickly Molly felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her. He held her tightly though, and Irene’s hand rested against her back, providing additional support.

 

            “You aren’t adversaries, Sherlock,” Molly spoke softly, her head resting against his shoulder.

 

            He leaned down, kissing Irene’s forehead, then her own. “I know, Molly Hooper, but The Woman and I love our verbal sparring. That won’t ever change.”

 

            “Heaven forbid,” Irene grinned, taking Molly’s soap from niche in the shower wall and beginning to rub it all over her.

 

            Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pushed Molly fully into Irene’s arms. “Water alone will have to do for me. I refuse to smell like a chemist’s approximation of,” he paused to read the bottle, “Vanilla Berry Sunrise. That is beyond ridiculous – sunrise does not have a smell, and if it did-”

 

            His next words were cut off by Irene’s quick shove of his body out of the shower. Molly laughed and held Irene as tightly as she could while being slicked with soap. “Smart move, kitten.”

 

            “Sometimes the only way to deal with the Great Detective is to toss him out on his arse,” Irene replied cheerfully, continuing to soap and rinse off Molly’s very relaxed body.

 

            There was an annoyed huff from the other side of the shower curtain. “As you ladies seem to have moved into the post-coital ‘cuddle’ phase, I will remove myself.”

 

            “Don’t pretend you didn’t love being the meat in a woman sandwich last night, Sherlock Holmes!” Molly called out, biting her lip to keep from laughing at the horrified expression she was sure was forming on his face at her words. Irene didn’t bother, and her laughter rang out, bouncing off the tiled walls.

 

            “This situation is rapidly devolving into farce,” Sherlock muttered, just loud for both of them to hear. “I’m going to Baker Street where logic and sanity live.”

 

            Neither woman tried to stop him. Sherlock had been exposed to more sentiment in the past twenty-hour hours than in the last two years. He needed space to breathe. Instead, they finished their ablutions, toweled off, and finished the pastries, laughing and cuddling just as their witty boy had predicted they would.  

 


	18. Molly gets sassy and Sherlock notices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly sees Sherlock again after nearly a month has passed, and she isn't sure of anything. Will she be reassured or chastised? Or both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long break. Inspiration up and left me for a while. Thank you to everyone who kept commenting and kept my spirits up. Kisses to my readers. Next chapter is just naughty, dirty sex, so that should "come" together quickly (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).

oOo0oOo – Chapter 18 – oOo0oOo

 

            “Of all the _moronic_ -” Sherlock huffed loudly.

           

            “Just because the book was on the floor,” Greg cut in, sounding equally annoyed.

 

            “Not everyone – I mean, not _anyone_ , thinks the way you do, Sherlock,” John spoke over both of them in what might have been an attempt to calm them down, but he clearly sounded like a man losing patience.

           

            “You know I can’t abide excuses,” Sherlock snapped, probably wearing a pout to match his petulant tone.

 

             Molly had looked up from Ms. Floyd’s chest cavity as soon as she began hearing the raised voices in the hall outside the morgue. She couldn’t decide whether she was looking forward to the hurricane coming her way, or if she should take the next few seconds to barricade the doors. She hadn’t seen Sherlock in nearly three weeks, but she was busy, and whatever he wanted from her would be at least a few hours worth of distraction.

 

             Also, even though she didn’t want to admit it, Molly was a bit nervous. Her “relationship” with Sherlock had changed, irrevocably, and they hadn’t discussed the ramifications, nor had they established any type of future behavioral norms. Was she supposed to act like nothing had happened? She and Irene had decided to take Sherlock with no strings attached, no expectations. Of course, it was one thing to say that, and quite another to put it into practice.

 

            Molly and Irene had fallen into a very comfortable rhythm in the last few weeks. Irene worked a few nights a week, usually when Molly had an early shift the next day, and they spent time off together walking the city, visiting shops and museums. Irene would read while Molly cooked, and they spent a great deal of time in bed. Having been away from one another for so many months, they couldn’t go long without touching each other, and even the most seemingly innocent stroke of a cheek or grasp of a waist ended in a tangle of limbs upon the nearest available horizontal surface. Molly was happier than she’d ever been in her life, and she had put Sherlock (and Mycroft’s threats) to the back of her mind.

 

            Now, though, as the door flew open, banging into the already dented wall, Molly was reminded about the dramatic change in her relationship with Sherlock, and of the fact that both John and Greg were aware of it as well, though not of the exact details. How was she supposed to act? As much as she had deferred to Sherlock in public in the past, getting his coffee, dropping everything to run his tests or offer him assistance, Molly wasn’t that person anymore. She might submit to him sexually, but that didn’t mean that she could go back to being a meek little mouse, jumping whenever he entered the room, scurrying to do his bidding.

 

            Molly took a deep breath, then turned her attention back to Ms. Floyd, just in time to appear completely focused on her work. She carefully lifted out the liver, placing it on the nearby scales.

 

           “Molly, I need-” Sherlock began.

 

            “Use some manners, you git,” Greg interrupted. The vehemence of his tone indicated that the morning with Sherlock had been a difficult one.

 

            John sighed while Sherlock and Greg glared at one another. “What he means to say is that we would be very happy if you would take a minute to help us.”

 

            As she turned back, she found Sherlock had come over to the body, standing very close to her. The cool, salty smell of him filled her nostrils, triggering her recent memories of being surrounded by that scent, mixed intimately with her own and Irene’s.

 

           Still, she didn’t allow that to show, murmuring in a quiet voice that nevertheless carried, “I need to finish this autopsy. It’s -”

 

          “Bor-ing,” Sherlock intoned, pointing at the liver Molly had just weighed. “Clearly a case of -”

 

          “Lupus-related damage to the liver and heart,” Molly finished, not looking up as she removed said heart.

 

          John immediately came forward, his inner doctor intrigued, looking intently at Ms. Floyd’s face. “But she doesn’t have -”

 

         “The customary butterfly-shaped facial rash, no,” Molly added, noting the weight of the heart on her chart. “Her G.P. missed it, too.”

 

         Sherlock made an impatient noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He moved even closer, his voice dropping low so only she could hear his words, practically sending vibrations through her body as he spoke. “Yes, you have shown your intellectual independence, my little pathologist. We both know you are much more clever than I used to give you credit for. However, this autopsy is all but done, and no life is held in the balance. Now, do please be a good girl, and help us catch a murderer.”

 

         It was tantamount to Sherlock saying that he needed _her_ , Molly knew. And his close proximity left her in no doubt that he hadn’t deleted their experiences, that he wanted more.

 

          “Fine,” Molly gave in, finally glancing up to see Sherlock with a rare, genuine smile that reached the corners of his eyes. He didn’t properly thrive without a case to solve, and he was asking for her help, not simply expecting it. Yes, he was still over the mark into the demanding side, but Molly was honest enough with herself to admit she found his imperious behavior sexy.

         She went over to the sink in the corner, stripping her gloves and throwing them into the biohazard bin. “I’ll meet you in the lab in five minutes.”

        

         Sherlock grinned. “Excellent!” He left the room immediately. Greg followed him with a quick “Thanks for helping out, Molly.”

 

        “What was _that_?” John stayed in place beside Ms. Floyd, his eyes darting from Molly to the door, then back. “Did Sherlock just _charm_ you into doing something?”

 

        John’s eyebrows were barely on his face. Molly laughed, adding in a teasing tone, “More like he seduced me with that insanely sexy baritone.”

 

       “God, Molly,” his expression shifted to one of embarrassment. “I don’t need to hear that,”

 

       “Fair is fair,” Molly put a few notations into the morgue computer. “After all, Mary tells me that you’re quite a wild man behind closed doors.”

 

        He grimaced. “I’d say that I’m going to have a talk with Mary about privacy, but I know she does whatever the hell she wants anyway, so instead I’m going to ask you, seriously, if you think that this balancing act you’re attempting with Irene and Sherlock is wise.”

 

        A pang of jealousy ran through Molly. She had had two years of John as her friend, her brother as far as her heart was concerned, but now Sherlock was back, and Molly wondered if John was more concerned about him than her. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him.” Molly tried to keep the anger out of her voice.

 

       Apparently, she failed, because John came over to her and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Molly, I’m worried about _both_ of you. Sherlock is not the type to,” he paused for several seconds. “To be able to sustain a healthy relationship of any kind.”

 

      Molly gave John a squeeze in return before pulling back. “Healthy? Or do you really mean _normal_?”

 

      “I’d never use the word _normal_ to describe anything to do with Sherlock,” John gave a low laugh. Then he gave her a hard look. “But he’s more fragile than he lets on, and when you add Irene to the mix,” his voice trailed off.

 

       “John,” Molly shook her head, unsure of how much she wanted to say without discussing the matter with Sherlock and Irene. “Irene and Sherlock are on friendly enough terms now, and Sherlock knows exactly what he’s doing.”

 

      “Do you?” John inquired. “Can you really divide your affections between two people as… _intense_ as those two and expect not to get your heart broken?”

 

      She sighed. As wonderful and open-minded as John was, he was bound by ideas of traditional, monogamous relationships, and if she told him that the three of them were in the midst of a polyamorous, BDSM tangle they were still negotiating the details of, he’d worry even more. Better to wait until things were clearer in her own mind before discussing with others.

 

      “John, I love you. I know you’re doing your job as my honorary big brother by trying to protect me, and your job as best friend by trying to protect Sherlock, but we have to figure this out on our own.”

 

      John stared at her for a moment, then gave a shake of his head, accompanied by that adorable, lopsided half-smile of his. “Fair enough. But don’t expect me not to be concerned about two of the three people I love the most in the world.”

 

      “Aawww,” Molly gave him another quick hug. “You’re the best almost-brother a girl could ask for.” She grabbed her lab keys. “Now, let’s go to the lab before Greg breaks an expensive piece of equipment over Sherlock’s head just to get him to shut up.”

 

 

oOo0oOo

 

            Molly’s detour to the lab only ended up taking about fifteen minutes. She had barely begun to assist Sherlock in analyzing what looked like a grease stain on a book cover when he shot out of his chair, and slapped his forehead.

 

            “This doesn’t matter! It’s all about the e-mail after all,” he grabbed his coat and ran to the door, pausing to look back expectantly at John and Greg. “Well? Are you two coming or not? The case will be solved in the next twenty minutes.”

 

            Greg muttered something incredibly vulgar under his breath, but he followed Sherlock, nodding at Molly as he passed.

 

            “I guess we’re leaving, then,” John said, glancing at the now swinging door. “Mary wants you over for dinner again soon. I’ll have her call you.” He looked at the slide in Molly’s hand. “Sorry about you being dragged away from work for,”

 

            She laughed. “Don’t apologize. It’s just like old times, only Sherlock has slightly better manners.”

 

            “Maybe towards you,” John muttered as he waved and left the lab.

 

            In another fifteen minutes, Molly was back in the morgue, and finishing up her work on Ms. Floyd, which though mostly done, still took the rest of her shift.   The air felt particularly stuffy, so she decided to get a shower before leaving for home. Irene had texted her earlier that she would be working until midnight. Molly thought about calling her sister while she toweled off, or buying a book from the hospital gift shop and taking it over to the closest pub to enjoy over dinner and a pint. She pondered her options while she redressed and brushed out her hair, glad to have it down from the tight knot it had been in all day. As she picked up her bag, her mobile screen lit up and buzzed, and her pulse quickened.

 

            _Baker Street in twenty minutes._

_Do you have any food not covered in mold?_ Molly was starving, and as much as she wanted to see Sherlock, she didn’t fancy passing out from hunger.

 

            A minute passed, and she knew he was looking in his kitchen, because that wasn’t an answer he would have known off handedly. _No_ , came the reply.

 

            _Forty minutes and I’ll bring take-away,_ Molly countered.

 

            _Twenty minutes. Spaghetti Bolognese from Angelo’s will be waiting._

Molly couldn’t help but laugh. The annoyance on Sherlock’s face was clear in her mind. The fact he had acquiesced to her need for food spoke volumes. Of course, if he had finished his case, his own hunger might have finally caught up with him. She texted a quick _deal_ and headed out.

 

 

            The next few hours were unlike anything Molly had ever experienced.   When she arrived at Baker Street, she saw the kitchen had been cleaned (at least in a cursory, Sherlockian-fashion), the pasta was already dished onto plates, and a bottle of red wine was opened between them (though it had been poured into mugs rather than wine glasses).

 

            Sherlock sprang up from his chair by the window as she entered, and helped her take off her light jacket. He draped it over the arm of the sofa and ushered her into the kitchen area. Molly followed silently, raising an eyebrow when he pulled out a chair for her.

 

            “What? I can be polite,” Sherlock murmured, pushing the chair back towards the table after Molly was seated.

 

            “I didn’t say otherwise,” Molly worked to keep any hint of amusement out of her voice. He was so tetchy at times. She watched him sit down, and was happy to see that he began to eat.   After savoring the pasta for a few minutes, she asked, “So the case is concluded to your satisfaction?”

 

            He nodded, taking a sip of wine, and gave her a wide smile. Molly felt vaguely apprehensive and completely confused. She had expected a snappish reply about the inadequacies of the police or humans in general. Sherlock didn’t go around being polite or buying dinner, let alone _eating_ dinner and _smiling_.

 

            Of course, he knew she knew this, and his smile widened further until the corners of his eyes creased in a wholly genuine, pleasant, and frankly alarming way.  

 

            “Why are you acting like this?” She finally gave in to the need to say something.

 

            “You have a suspicious mind, Molly Hooper,” his low voice wrapped around Molly, arousing her effortlessly. “I’m enjoying dinner with my lover. Can’t I smile?”

 

            Molly put down her fork and took a rather large drink of her wine. “So we are lovers, then?”

 

            Amusement flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. “I do believe that is a common term for people who sleep together on a fairly regular basis.”

 

            Flushing, Molly bit her lower lip. “Yes, I know that, I just meant I wasn’t sure what to call…what to say…how to...” her voice trailed off as her words became less coherent. Why the hell did looking into those icy blue eyes make her IQ plummet and her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth?

 

            “I know that we didn’t discuss relationship parameters,” he refilled her glass, then took her hand in his. His long, callused fingers traced the lines in her palm, and Molly shivered. It felt like her heart line had a direct connection to her groin. “I finished my case, and that has put me into a short-lived period of contentment and relaxation. I thought it best to have this conversation while in one of my few good moods, free from the distraction of a case, but not yet bored and restless.”

 

            He smiled again, a beautiful, sweet smile, and Molly’s heart thumped in response. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

 

            Before she realized it, Molly had been pulled into his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his nose nuzzling through her loose hair to the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. “I know,” he breathed against her. “It doesn’t last long.”

 

            “Well,” Molly tried to focus on his words rather than his wandering hands and mouth. “What parameters are you interested in having?”

 

            He drew back her hair and kissed along the curve of her neck. “I’m interested in the parameters of your delicious body, my little pathologist.”

 

            All of Molly responded to that, but she squeezed her thighs shut tightly and tried again. “I meant about the relationship,” she put her hands over his.

 

            “Fine, yes,” he pouted slightly, and Molly had the brief, wild thought that if she had been Irene, she would have bitten that lip hard enough to make him shout.

 

            “I know my own short-comings,” Sherlock turned her so that she was facing him, straddling his lap. His broad hands felt warm and strong on her hips. She could barely contain her desire to bounce. “I am too self-centered to be a primary love interest for anyone,”

 

            Molly opened her mouth, ready to defend Sherlock, even to himself. He placed a quick but gentle finger to her lips. “No, don’t. It’s true. But luckily for you and Irene and me, I don’t need to be. Irene has texted me several times in the last few weeks,”

 

            “What? I thought we were giving you space,” Molly was a bit annoyed. Irene hadn’t said a word to her about speaking to Sherlock.

 

            “ _You_ were giving me space,” Sherlock moved his fingers over her clavicle in a way that suggested he was mentally playing a piece of music. “But my relationship with Irene is completely different than the one I have with you, just your relationship with Irene is a near opposite of the one you have with me.”

 

            Molly nodded, conceding the point. Irene took a dominant role with Sherlock, and it made sense that she would be initiating contact between them. “What was said?”

 

            Sherlock leaned in and placed a gentle kiss against the hollow of her throat. She could smell his hair, such a strong, clean, cold scent, and she shivered for multiple reasons.   His lips moved over her skin and Molly could tell he was smiling.

 

           “It’s a bit adorable that you had a flare of jealousy, my pathologist. It isn’t called for.” He raised his head, looking her directly in the eyes. “You are hypotenuse in this triangle, and you damn well know it.” His tone bordered on chastisement.

 

            “As for what was said, Irene and I simply noted that our needs were different from yours,” he continued, rubbing small circles into her lower back. “You are more emotional than either of us, and that is part of the reason we both love you so. Yet, it means that you require more frequent reinforcement of our affections. And since you are much less sure of my affections than of Irene’s, we thought that I should spend some time with you alone after I finish my cases. Those are the times when I am most relaxed, and my better mood will positively reinforce our relationship, even though our sexual intimacies will most likely be quite sporadic, as I am, to quote Irene, ‘a fickle bastard’.”

 

            “What about time for you and Irene? Or the three of us together?” Molly blushed as she remembered their night together. “I thought you both enjoyed it, and I think it is good for us not to simply split off into pairs.”

 

           “You are so greedy, Molly Hooper,” he teased with a grin. “Irene and I will figure something out, I have no doubt, though I suspect it will be when a case isn’t coming together, or there are frustrations to be worked through. As for the three of us, that will happen when and as it does, naturally.”

 

         “That sounds very…reasonable,” Molly frowned slightly. “Though I think life is messy, and it might not play out so smoothly as you make it sound.”

 

         “What is the phrase?” Sherlock kissed her cheek, then moved up towards her ear, catching it between his teeth. “Don’t ‘borrow trouble’.”

 

         “Like I’d have to, with the two of you,” Molly mumbled, distracted by his fingers moving under her shirt, up her spine, pressing in massaging motion that felt heavenly after a day bent over the autopsy table.

 

         “So true,” Sherlock breathed into her ear as he undid the clasp on her bra. “Though let’s be honest, shall we?” He ran his fingertips under the loosened elastic band and brushed against the bottom swell of her breasts, causing a soft moan to fall from her lips. “Trouble gets you a bit wet, doesn’t it?”

 

         His right hand deftly unfastened her trousers, and slid into her knickers, passing over the soft, neatly trimmed curls to find her folds thoroughly soaked. He plucked gently at her clitoris, as though playing his violin _pizzicato_. Her head fell forward against his shoulder, and Molly inhaled deeply, pressing her mouth to the place where his shoulder met his neck. She began to unbutton his shirt, but he caught her hands with his left one.

 

         “So used to being in charge with The Woman, aren’t you?” his smile was at once charming and sinister. “Tsk tsk, Molly. You’ve forgotten your place with me,” as he spoke, he slipped two fingers inside her and rotated them in a circular motion while using his thumb to continue playing with her clit.

 

         “No, Sir,” Molly protested, but her voice came out in a plaintive whine that betrayed her words. It was true that she took the lead with Irene, but she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed being dominated until Sherlock had burst through her morgue doors this morning.  

 

          “Sir?” Fingers were snatched away, quickly threading into her hair, and pulling her head back sharply. Sherlock’s expression was dark and cold. “That won’t do at all, my little pathologist.”

 

         “Master,” Molly gasped, her eyes watering from the tight grip on her hair. “I meant Master,” she had willingly used that word with Sherlock previously, but nearly a month had elapsed, and each time she said it required a pushing back of her ego, a stripping bare of herself, and there was just a tiny bit of fear still in her, that giving herself fully to Sherlock would end in heartbreak, just like John had worried.

         Sherlock’s long fingers twisted, tightening his hold further, and Molly bit her lip to keep from crying out. “Don’t lie to me, Molly. I can read you so easily. You’re scared. Scared that I’ll hurt you – not physically, but emotionally. As much as I’ve told you and shown you, you have a hard time believing that this isn’t some kind of extended dream, and that’s why you were holding back, and why you were so passive aggressive this morning in the morgue. Isn’t that so?”

 

         Molly nodded, moving her head as slightly as possible to avoid pulling her hair more. She was crying, though not from the pain.

 

         “This is precisely what Irene and I spoke about. You need to be reassured, and my tendency to disappear for weeks makes that difficult,” he relaxed his fingers a fraction, but pulled her face closer to his, kissing the trails of her tears. “I do not make many promises, Molly, but I swear to you that I will keep your heart safe. I cannot promise regularity, but I do promise my fidelity to you and Irene, and you should know that even when I am completely consumed by a case, you are always in my mind palace, always with me.”

 

         She didn’t realize how much she had needed to hear these words until they had been spoken. Their heads rested together, and she sighed contentedly as the pulling of her hair became more of a stroking.

 

            “Irene forced through my barriers, and you forced through hers, but as much as you talk of love and trust, Molly Elizabeth Hooper, you can’t let go completely to me. You don’t thoroughly trust that my own heart is functional enough to love you.” He released her hair and caught her left hand, deftly unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it aside, and placing her palm flat against his chest. “Feel it beating? I love you, Molly. Maybe not in the traditional way, but I love you deeply and fully. You need to trust that, to trust me, to know that even if I work a case for months, that I will always come back to you – I will always come back to take and love what is mine. Because have no doubt that you are mine, my little pathologist. Forever.”

 

            Molly could hardly breathe. Everything he had said was true, though part of her didn’t want to admit that she was still scared, still hesitant, after all they had been through, after he had trusted her with the most precious secret he had ever had. It was true that she thought of Sherlock as damaged, as emotionally stunted, and Irene as well. But wasn’t she just as damaged, just as frightened of looking real love in the face (no matter how strange a form it took) and accepting it, just as it came? How odd that Sherlock was the one to call her out on emotion, to insist that she take the risk, the leap of faith that she had blindly told herself she had already taken, even though she had been clinging to the ledge this whole time by her fingertips.

 

            Raising her head, Molly looked into his eyes again, amazed at the vulnerability she saw there. “Yes, I am yours, Sherlock. Yours forever.” And she meant it, wholly, without any reservations.

 

            He gazed at her for several moments, and finally smiled. “Excellent. Now, I think I should have pudding.”

           

            Molly gave him a confused look. Sherlock wasn’t big on sweets, and there wasn’t any evidence of a dessert in the kitchen.

 

            “You’ve been a naughty pathologist, all full of mistrust and sass, so you aren’t getting anything,” Sherlock purred as lowered Molly to the floor, pulling her trousers and knickers off as he did so. “In fact, _you_ are going to _be_ the pudding, though you won’t get to come for a long, long, time.”

 

Molly caught sight of a wolfish grin right before he lowered his head to her cunt, and then all thoughts were gone and only pleasure remained.

 

 

           

           

 

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

           


	19. White Flags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truces and Surrender all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, about that timely finishing...I may have been overly optimistic. A dear friend passed away from cancer and I just couldn't bring myself to write for a while. Love to all who read and send me encouragements.

oOo0oOo – Chapter 19 – oOo0oOo

 

            The room was spinning a bit as Molly tried to sit up, scooting back and away from Sherlock’s overwhelming fingers and tongue. Apparently all the blood in her body had fled south, because every nerve ending between her legs was throbbing with stimulation.

 

            “Crying for mercy already?” Sherlock’s fingers slid under her buttocks, digging into the soft flesh there and pulling her back toward that wide, knowing grin.

 

            Molly took a deep breath.  Even though their interactions tonight had been on the tame side physically, Molly felt emotionally exhausted – more far gone than if she had been in a full-blown scene, descending into subspace.  “Yes.  I am crying for mercy. Red, Sherlock, red.”

 

            Strong, warm hands pulled her the rest of the way up and into Sherlock’s arms. “You are safe, Molly.”

 

            “I don’t feel safe; I feel scared.” Molly was sobbing now, wetting the fabric of his bespoke shirt. 

 

            He was quiet for several minutes, simply stroking her hair. As she calmed, he put his hands on either side of her face, cupping her cheeks gently and wiping her tears with his thumbs.  “And what is it, exactly, that scares you, Molly?” 

 

            His long, clever fingers tucked her hair behind her ears, waiting for her to answer, but she didn’t.  She wanted to, but this was emotion, not logic, and she was having trouble converting the feeling of panic into words.

 

            “Allow me to tell you what I think,” he lifted her, carrying her to his bed, and settled himself against the headboard, with her body flush against his. “And you can correct me if I am wrong.”

 

            She managed a weak snort at the idea of Sherlock admitting he was wrong about anything. 

 

            “You have become accustomed to being content with short bursts of happiness which are then taken away for long periods of time.  For years, I gave you minimal attention, then, only days after I told you how important you were to me, I left for almost two years. Irene gave you a few months of an intense relationship before she was sent away for several months. Then, we both came back, you got to have you cake and eat it as well, and now you’re waiting for someone to snatch away your plate.”  

 

            Molly pushed her face further into Sherlock’s chest.  He was right, of course.  She glanced up at him and sighed.  “It all seems like a dream, a fantasy that can’t possibly be my real life.”

            “And you think the proper response is to worry so much about a possible future that you don’t enjoy the “fantasy” that has finally been made a reality?” Though his words prodded at her, his tone was gentle and his fingers rubbed steady, calming circles between her shoulder blades. 

 

            She pursed her lips.  “Clearly, I am not acting logically, Sherlock.  My messy emotions are the problem, as always.”  Part of her wanted to cling to her last defenses, to refuse to see the sense he pointed out. 

 

            Sherlock could read her, though, and he merely smirked.  “Go ahead and be stubborn for a bit longer. I can outwait anyone, Molly Elizabeth Hooper.”

 

            It took several minutes, but Molly slowly gathered her main concerns, and spoke them aloud.  “It simply doesn’t seem sustainable, this level of passion, stretched between three people.”

 

            Taking a deep breath, she continued before Sherlock could respond. “What are we to one another, without sex and power plays?”

 

            He took her hands in his own, gripping them tightly, ducking his head to catch her down-turned gaze.  “You are the person with whom I trusted _everything_. Perhaps you don’t realize how hard that was for me, to come to you, to lay myself bare, but that night in the lab, when I shared my fears and my plan with you, I showed you a part of myself that I’ve rarely even admitted to myself, let alone exposed. If we never had sex again, you would still be as important to me as you are now.”

 

            Molly felt herself smile even through her uncertainty.  He was being so sweet, so reassuring; it was bizarre and yet wonderful. 

 

            “And Irene is…she is The Woman, someone who hurt me, and whom I still crossed continents to save,” Sherlock’s expression was somewhere between a grin and a grimace.  “I care for her, deeply, despite my fiercest reasoning.  My feelings for her are outside any logic, but I’ve accepted that.”

 

            She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.  “That’s quite a concession for you.”

 

            He pulled her into his arms again, holding her tightly.  “Don’t you dare tell _her_ that, my little pathologist, or you won’t sit down for a week,” he spoke into her hair.

 

            Molly sighed, feeling comfort from the pressure of his skin against hers. “Then I suppose I should concede your points as well.  I am being stubborn, worrying too much about possible future pain rather than enjoying the rather brilliant present.”  She exhaled shakily, “But, as you said, I don’t seem to get to be happy for any extended period of time.”

 

            “No one is going anywhere this time, Molly,” Sherlock whispered gently in her ear. “Even though I seem to attract trouble on a weekly basis, I think I’ve proven there’s nothing I can’t handle. After all,” she could feel him smiling behind her, “I have John at my side, Lestrade to interact with people, Mycroft to mop up international messes, Mrs. Hudson to clean up my literal messes, The Woman to consult if I need to blackmail anyone, and you to hold my secrets.   How could I possibly fail?”

 

            “Confidence is certainly not a problem,” Molly laughed.  She closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax for a moment.

 

            “You’re finally releasing all that muscular tension,” Sherlock noted. He slid out from behind her and stood by the window, lifting his violin from his dresser top.   A soft, slow tune filled the air, one Molly didn’t know, but it wrapped around her and she knew this was yet another way Sherlock was reassuring her, telling her that she didn’t have to be always submissive, that he would lift her up and keep her heart safe, just as he had promised.

 

 

oOo0oOo - _Six Weeks Later_ \- oOo0oOo

 

           

            “That was a rather appalling display of sentiment,” Mycroft drawled as Sherlock finished his best man’s speech.

 

            “Be quiet,” Molly hissed.  She was honestly shocked that Mycroft had even come to John and Mary’s wedding, but after listening to his snide comments throughout Sherlock’s rather long, convoluted, yet ultimately touching toast, she had come to the conclusion that the elder Holmes simply wouldn’t be happy unless he was ruining someone’s day, and the more important the day, the better. 

 

            He made an odd noise, and Molly looked over in time to see a hint of motion from Irene’s direction.  Had she kicked him under the table?  Molly hoped so.

 

            “It’s so hard being the only true sociopath left around, isn’t it?” Irene murmured, sipping her champagne with a Cheshire cat’s grin.

 

            Mycroft didn’t respond to her, continuing his decision to pretend that The Woman wasn’t actually present.  Instead, he glanced at Molly, “Is it too much to hope that you would keep your pet on her leash?”

 

            Laughter bubbled out of Molly.  “Why is it so hard for you to see that the control is only an illusion? Irene is free to do as she wishes, and any “leash” I have her on binds us both.”

 

            “And Sherlock?” Mycroft’s mouth twitched unpleasantly.

           

            “What about Sherlock?” Molly asked innocently.  She sighed inwardly, knowing that she really shouldn’t derive so much pleasure from toying with the man who was _the_ British government. 

 

            A blood vessel near Mycroft’s right temple began to throb in time with the tic of his tightened jaw muscle.  Molly figured his blood pressure was nearing an unhealthy number, so she decided to answer.

 

            “I’m not sure exactly what you want to hear from me, Mr. Holmes,” Molly spoke softly.  “Irene and I are in a healthy, committed relationship.  Sherlock is a friend to both of us, and we see him every once in a while. Irene has nothing to do with his work, and I only occasionally perform lab tests or autopsies for his cases.”

 

            For a moment, Molly was seriously concerned Mycroft might have an apoplectic fit of rage, but then the corners of his mouth curved upward briefly. “Fine, Dr. Hooper. I respect your discretion.   It really is in your best interest, after all.”

 

            “Oh?” Molly knew he was going to say something unpleasant.  She could feel the tension in the air.  Irene’s hand gently squeezed her thigh, offering unspoken support and assurance.

 

            “We all know Sherlock is easily bored and distracted, as well as fetishized by the press, especially the tabloids.  If any of the legion of nasty reporters Sherlock has ignored, berated, or outright abused over the years catches wind of such a juicy bit of gossip as a,” Mycroft paused, as if the words physically pained him, “sadomasochistic threesome, then you’ll be at the center of a media maelstrom.”

 

             His eyes flicked towards Irene, then back to Molly.  “Now, _some_ thrive on attention, positive or negative, but I doubt you are one of those people, and I am certain that your sister, and her children, are not.”  He leaned forward, menace lighting up his gaze.  “And it would be a fine, fine, frenzy, Dr. Hooper.”

 

             There wasn’t much to say in response, Molly thought.  What Mycroft had said was true.  Sherlock was a favorite topic in the news, both real and fabricated, and if there was even a hint of her and Irene’s involvement with him, they’d be hounded to within an inch of their lives.  And of course Molly’s family would be targets as well.  And her coworkers.  It would be a nightmare, a complete invasion of privacy.  Yet, it would also annoy Mycroft.  He preferred to keep all connections to himself on a low profile.  Perhaps this conversation was the closest thing to an olive branch she would ever get from him. 

 

             “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I agree,” Molly smiled as warmly as she could.  She wanted to achieve, if not peace, then some kind of cease-fire with him. “Discretion is the key to our relationship.” She allowed a tiny emphasis on the possessive. 

 

             Mycroft arched a brow. “In _our_ relationship indeed, Dr. Hooper.” He rose from the chair and buttoned his jacket. “If we can maintain the current façade, then we will do quite well, I think.”   He left with the slightest of nods in her direction.

 

             “Thank God he left,” Irene grinned, rubbing her bare arms.  “I’m nearly frozen solid.  Does that man even have a soul?”

 

             “It is highly doubtful,” Sherlock’s voice sounded from behind Molly. “And even if he once did, it has long since been bartered, I’m sure.”

 

             “Yes, I might have heard that,” Irene patted the empty seat beside her. 

 

             Sherlock sat, turning his gaze on Molly.  The pale blue color of his eyes, combined with his intense focus, made her shiver, as it nearly always did. “Was it the usual veiled threats?”

 

             “Well, a few,” Molly admitted. “But Irene kicked him under the table, and I think he and I are on better footing.”  She let out a laugh as Irene’s bare toes slid up her leg. From Sherlock’s quick glance over, she imagined The Woman was doing something similar to him with her other foot.  

 

            “I would have liked to have seen his face when that happened,” the corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. “I didn’t kick him enough as a small child.  I want Mycroft to leave you alone – both of you.”

 

            “Your speech was lovely, Sherlock,” Molly tried to steer the conversation away from the other Mr. Holmes. “I know John was touched, and Mary as well.”

            Sherlock made a dismissive noise. “Enough of that. I’m done with emotion for the day. Actually, probably for at least a few weeks.”

 

            Molly watched his face, noting how quickly his mask was slipping into place.  The speech he had given had been heartfelt and much more revealing than she had ever seen Sherlock allow, especially to such a large group. He must be emotionally exhausted, and maybe a bit scared as well.  He needed to feel safe, to have restraints and limits imposed.  “Then I think you and Irene might retire early tonight. I’m sure she could help re-establish a sense of control.”

 

            “Do you?” Sherlock shook his head.  “My sense of control couldn’t be complete without you, my little pathologist.”

 

            Irene’s toes pressed harder into Molly’s upper thigh, wiggling closer to the line of her underwear. Her skin began to flush, and she knew her pupils were dilating as she quickly became aroused. With the preparations for the wedding and busy work schedules, it had been over a month since all three of them had been in the same bedroom.  Molly wasn’t disappointed by this; she had accepted that any sexual relationship with Sherlock would be an occasional treat.  In a way, this made the moments together more exciting. There wasn’t enough frequency to create a feeling of repetition. 

 

            With Irene, sleeping side by side every night, having lazy brunches on days off, scrubbing each other’s backs in the shower, all their daily routines, both mundane and special, formed an intimacy that Molly reveled in.  The Woman had given her the love she had never known was missing. And Sherlock gave them both the opposite side of domesticity – a rare and thrilling outlet for the sides of themselves they didn’t explore in their own dynamic, and that was also rooted in love and respect.  Mycroft only saw lust between them, but that wasn’t the truth.  Love was the truth, and it was the love that made Molly’s cunt throb – the absolute trust she felt for the two people she was following out of this room.  


	20. Happily Ever After with Pirates (and even Mycroft)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our trio come to equilibrium, and find their own version of what happily ever after means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the final chapter. There is an epilogue tucked in here, which hopefully gives the story a satisfactory conclusion. As for the happily ever after, I couldn't resist. I know angst is popular (and I even dig it now and then), but fanfic is a guilty pleasure, and I like to think of characters getting happy endings (and not just the porny kind). Hope this isn't too cheesy, but it's where I wanted to end up all along. Thanks to everyone who came along for the ride. Love and kisses.

                    oOo0oOo – Chapter 20 – oOo0oOo

 

       It took Irene over an hour to relax Sherlock. As usual, he snarked and resisted, wanting The Woman to forcibly put him into place. He was the very definition of a bratty submissive, always trying to top from the bottom. Molly watched them, aroused of course, but also awed by how much had changed between them.

 

      “Darling witty boy, I think I might have to use a muzzle on you next time, to get us to this point sooner.” Irene trailed her wine-colored nails down his back, leaving red lines behind as she pushed him into child’s pose, his forehead brushing the floor.

 

      He was completely naked, and Molly sucked in her breath in admiration of his elegant, elongated form. The curve of his buttocks was particularly appealing. Irene must have agreed because she was tracing that curve with the end of her riding crop. Molly recognized the look on her face, that pondering of where to strike, which piece of the marble white canvas to paint red first.  

 

      She closed her eyes, listening the sound of the leather swishing through the air, of harsh exhalations, of softer moans. Molly didn’t need to see what was happening to feel it. The exchange of power was everywhere, a raw energy that suffused the very air.

 

      How long she lay there, in almost a meditative state, she wasn’t sure. Her eyelids fluttered open at the brush of fingers on her cheek. Sherlock’s calloused fingertips were gliding over her jawline.

 

     “Is Irene done with you?” Molly asked softly, not wanting to spoil the tenderness of the moment.

 

      Warmth flooded her other side as Irene laid her body flush against Molly’s. “Hardly,” Irene snorted. “But when we are all three together, it is nice for everyone to participate.”

 

     “My sentiments as well,” Sherlock murmured against her neck as he licked and sucked his way toward her collarbone while Irene traced lazy patterns along her ribcage, circling closer and closer to the underside of her breast.

 

      Molly sighed quietly, barely daring to move. She felt so amazing, just being here in their arms that it seemed impossible.

 

      A harsh twist to her nipple brought out a gasp. “Stop overthinking, Molly.” Sherlock’s hand was almost touching Irene’s, and the combined stimulation of their fingers, centered on one breast, was overwhelming.  “We aren’t going away.”

  

            Sherlock lowered his mouth to her breast and caught Irene’s hand, pushing it down with his own to Molly’s thighs. They each took a side, pulling her legs apart gently, then tracing their way in perfect synchronization to her cunt, drawing apart the lips with strokes and tugs, two of Irene’s slim, soft fingers sliding into her alongside Sherlock’s larger, rougher index finger. They thrust in time with one another, pushing and pulling on opposite sides so that she felt the sensation of entrance and withdrawal constantly. Their thumbs played a bizarrely erotic game of war over her clitoris, nudging and tapping for dominance over that tender nub of flesh.

           

            Molly writhed under their touches, her hips lifting off the bed. When she tried to push away from the intensity, two hands caught her wrists, keeping her in place. It was a dominant act on the surface, but it was also a request. Sherlock and Irene were asking her to let go of her fear, to trust that they loved her body, that they knew her body, and that they would never harm it – instead, they would coax every possible ounce of ecstasy out of it.

 

            She drew deep breaths, forcing herself to learn into their touches, to relax into the wonder of the moment. The sensations in her cunt were building to a frenzy, and she was crying and screaming through her release, barely noticing how the two hands that had been restraining her were now gently caressing her forearms, patting and soothing her in appreciation of her surrender.

 

            “So lovely,” Sherlock was by her ear, murmuring, the rumble of his voice sending little aftershocks through her body.

 

            “So perfect,” Irene added, laying her head against Molly’s shoulder.

 

            “Thank you,” Molly sighed, tears welling her eyes. Would she ever get used to such love, such attention, given so completely and freely? All her life, it felt, she had been seeking without success, and now, to have them both, it was almost beyond comprehension. Yet, that was where trust and faith entered, she supposed.

 

            Irene reached across Molly’s waist and took Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers together, resting lightly atop Molly’s abdomen. “It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Irene spoke into Molly’s skin. “It can always be this simple.”

 

            Sherlock made a small sound that might have been a laugh. “No one has ever excused me of being simple, but I agree with The Woman. Don’t get lost in all the negative possibilities and what-ifs, my little pathologist.”

 

            “So all we each need to do is keep two highly demanding lovers happy?” Molly did laugh. “That sounds easy.”

 

            “Simple doesn’t necessarily mean easy,” Irene countered. “But we’re a highly intelligent, resourceful trio. If anyone can manage this, we three can.”

 

 

 

                                                                                                  oOo0oOo – Three years later – oOo0oOo

 

 

            “I don’t think I can do this,” Sherlock paced.

 

            “You need to get in there,” John protested, moving Florence onto his other hip. At twenty-six months, she alternated between squirming impatiently to get down and clinging like a tree frog to her father’s chest.

 

            Mary reached over and took Florence, meeting Sherlock’s gaze over her daughter’s blonde curls. “If you miss this, Sherlock, you will regret it.”

 

            “It really is a moment for Molly and The Woman, not me,” Sherlock protested.

 

            John and Mary shared a long look. “Sherlock, everyone knows,” John sighed.

 

            A dark eyebrow arched. “Knows what?”

 

            John made a sound of amused disbelief. “That _you_ are the biological father of Molly’s child.”

 

            Sherlock’s face was unreadable. “Really? Is that what they say? You know I never listen to gossip.”

 

            “You?” John sputtered. “You live off of the stuff! You’re lucky that most think you too bloodless to be more than a sperm donor, or this whole thing would be splattered on the tabloids.”

 

            “Yes, well, The Woman and I may have joined forces with my brother on this issue to insure privacy,” Sherlock made a face like he’d tasted something repugnant. “I’m going to be his errand boy for at least a year.”

 

            Mary grinned. “I’d have loved to have seen that meeting. I’m sure the head of every major publication in Great Britain is quaking with fear.”

 

            Sherlock gave a discreet wink and Mary laughed in delight, Florence joining in with high-pitched giggles. John shook his head in exasperation.

 

            He came nearer, standing directly in front of his best friend, the man who had saved his life more times, in more ways, than he could ever repay. It was times like this, the important moments of human connection, that John thought he came closest.

 

            “Sherlock, what’s keeping you?” He asked quietly.

 

            The detective seemed suddenly interested in the floor tiles. “I am a dear part of their lives, I know, but Molly and Irene are together. They are the couple. And we all want it that way.” He paused. “It is a balance, and I don’t wish to upset it.”

 

            A loud moan interrupted his thoughts and John smiled. “I think that might be your summons.”

 

            Sherlock frowned, pulling his mobile out of his pocket. It was indeed a text from The Woman, written in all caps. _IF YOU AREN’T HERE IN FIVE MINUTES, YOU WILL WISH YOURSELF DEAD IN THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS._

            Mary leaned over and whistled. “I think she’s serious,” she added with a grin, “and she isn’t even the one having the baby. Molly is the one who’ll skin you alive.”

 

            Looking a bit ill, Sherlock headed down the hall. He came to stop outside the room at the end of the hall, an insanely expensive, highly private suite Mycroft had arranged for, and that had previously served any number of royal births.   Two bodyguards, one man and one woman, dressed discreetly in plainclothes, stood outside the door.

 

            As he passed them, the woman murmured, “Yes, Sir, he’s arrived.”

 

            Sherlock scoffed loudly. “Yes, tell my dear brother I am here. And remind him not to show his face any time soon.”

 

            The woman gave him a nod, though it was clearly only of acknowledgment, and no indication that she would tell Mycroft anything of the sort.

 

            He opened the door, and was greeted with a long, low moan of pain. Molly was standing by a window, bent half-double, her hands gripping the ledge for support, while The Woman was rubbing Molly’s lower back, and making soothing sounds of encouragement.

 

            Both women’s eyes immediately fell upon him as he entered, and both looked furious, though Molly’s had a heavy tinge of exhaustion as well.

 

            “Where the hell have you been?” Irene’s voice was positively frigid.

 

            “Sherlock!” Molly said at the nearly the same time, his name transitioning into a cry as she bent further, tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

 

            He came forward quickly, laying his coat over a chair and offering his arms in the place of the support of the window ledge. Molly gripped him tightly, surely leaving bruises in the shapes of fingertips.

 

            Molly whispered something and he bent down to catch it. “Are you afraid?” she repeated. “Afraid of what this will mean? Of how it will change everything?”

 

            Sherlock looked into her eyes, so tired, yet still kind, still thinking of him, even in her pain. He couldn’t be anything except completely honest. “Yes,” he answered simply.

 

            “So am I,” she groaned, turning toward Irene. “Sherlock, please take over for Irene. I think her hands are numb from continuously rubbing my back.”

 

            He followed her instructions, parting the hospital gown, placing his hands on her hips and using his large thumbs to knead the base of her spine and the flesh surrounding it. She moaned low in her throat.

 

            “Oh, yes, that’s brilliant,” she sighed, draping herself over Irene, leaning her head on her lover’s shoulder.

 

            “Where are the bloody midwives? The nurses?” Sherlock demanded.

 

            “Just like a man to come in and try to assume control.” Irene gave superior smile at his impatience. “ _They_ have been here. The midwife just measured Molly a few minutes ago. She’s around eight centimeters dilated. Everything is going as it should, except that the father has been notably absent.”

 

            “Woman,” Sherlock made a growling sound. “Now is not the time,”

 

            “When, then?” She spat back. “We have not asked for any consistency from you, Sherlock, but we have loved you! It would be nice to have that devotion returned when it counts most!”

 

            Molly took a deep breath, steadying herself between contractions. “Irene, kitten, it’s alright. He’s here now. That’s what’s important. We will have plenty of time to figure out the future once this child is out of my body.”

 

            Irene nodded, and Sherlock did, too. “Fantastic,” Molly gasped as the pains began again. “I think I need the water.”

 

            Sherlock eyed the large bathing tub in the corner of the room disdainfully. “Are we all supposed to be in it?”

 

            “You are my back masseur,” Molly turned and grabbed the front of his shirt. “You go where I do!” she spoke low and fiercely.

 

            With a grin, Irene stripped off her clothes, revealing a surprisingly modest one-piece bathing suit. She went over to the tub and turned on the taps, adjusting the water. As it filled, she came back and the two of them helped Molly to the tub. Irene gently pulled off the ties of Molly’s gown, revealing her naked form.

 

            Sherlock watched, his eyes taking everything in as usual. Molly grimaced, though she wasn’t currently having a contraction. “I know, I look like an elephant,” she moaned.

 

            He put a hand out, rubbing the curve of her taut belly, noted the largeness of her breasts, the darkening of her nipples, the long, dark line that had formed down the middle of her stomach. Then he lifted her chin, and kissed her softly on the lips. “You are perfect, Molly Hooper.”

 

            He stripped down to his boxers, and both Molly and Irene could see his discomfort.  

 

            “Get behind her, witty boy, and you will feel less exposed,” Irene suggested.

 

            “I don’t know why _you_ feel bloody exposed,” Molly griped as she got into the tub, leaning on her knees with her back to Sherlock. “I’m the one who’s naked, the one whose vagina has been prodded all day long.”

 

            “I’m a very private per-”Sherlock began, but he was cut off by Molly’s shouted command to “ _Shut up and rubbing my fucking back!_ ”

 

            Irene sat on the tub ledge in front of Molly, giving Molly her knees to use as a support shelf, and gently stroking her hair, pushing back the fine pieces that had come undone from her braid.

 

            The midwife and a nurse came back in twenty minutes later, and it was announced Molly would be ready to push any moment. She was more than ready, and yelled at the whole room to let them know.

 

            “I can’t do this!” Molly moaned, twisting uncomfortably. “I can’t get through this! It’s too much, every position hurts!” She turned toward Sherlock, who looked panicked at the prospect, but who nevertheless offered his support. She nearly crawled into his lap, resting her knees on his legs, the entire top half of her body held up by his arms. She gripped his forearms, her forehead touching his sternum.

 

            Irene was behind her, with the midwife, and when Molly pushed for the final time, it was Irene who gently slid her arm under the tiny body, lifting it out of the water facedown to prevent water inhalation, and quickly swaddling the baby in the clean towels the nurse had been holding by the side of the tub.

 

            “Come look at our son, Molly,” Irene’s voice was thick with emotion, and Molly half-laughed, half-cried as Sherlock carefully turned her to face Irene. “He’s perfect.”

 

            “Our son?” Molly questioned, grinning widely. She had asked to not know the sex, wanting to be surprised, much to the frustration of all the friends and family who had wished to buy color-coded baby gifts.

 

            “Yes, a boy,” Irene smiled, never taking her eyes off the baby as she moved to sit beside Molly, handing him to her. “Hopefully, he won’t be as insufferable as his father.”

 

            Sherlock looked down over Molly’s shoulder, and Molly could feel his breath catching in his chest against her back. When he spoke, his tone sounded as if he had just been offered a chance at solving the world’s greatest mystery.

 

            “Through nurture and nature, this child couldn’t be more blessed,” he whispered. “He’ll be a kind-hearted genius who understands the power of blackmail. How can he fail to rule the world?” He reached out, loosened a tiny foot from the blankets and stroked it gently.

 

            Molly shook her head. “Maybe he’ll be wise enough to realize he doesn’t need to rule anything to be happen. Maybe he’ll raise bees in the country and solve the mystery of colony collapse.”

 

            Irene laid her cheek against Molly’s shoulder, watching the baby blink and gurgle at them, his blue eyes, much darker in shade than his father’s, taking them in with a familiar, inquisitive glance.   “It doesn’t matter what he does. He’ll be brilliant because he’ll know he’s loved.”

 

 

                                                                                      oOo0oOo – And another three years after that – oOo0oOo

 

            “You are aware that this chemistry set is meant for twelve year olds?” Mycroft sniffed as he glanced into the gift bag at Sherlock had placed on the table.

 

            “Arthur is not an average three year old,” Sherlock snapped back, then glanced at the package Mycroft was holding. “It’s better than the first edition Winnie-The-Pooh you bought. He’ll have it in pieces in minutes – he likes dissecting things, like his mother.”

 

            Mycroft smiled in that annoyingly nasty way that proclaimed he knew something Sherlock did not. “Molly told me last week that Arthur loves bedtime stories.”

 

            “Since when?” Sherlock demanded.

 

            Molly entered the room, placing a cake in the shape of Eeyore on the table. “Since a month past, Sherlock. You’ve been traipsing around Scotland for three weeks now. Children are very changeable.”

 

             She also glanced into Sherlock’s bag. “Is that a chemistry set?” She lifted out the box and read the side. “That contains hydrochloric acid?”

 

            “It’s never too early for explosions,” Sherlock made a pouting expression that would have looked perfectly in place on his son’s face. He reached into his pocket and began texting discreetly. “And John and Mary are bringing my other present when they arrive. The age-appropriate one.”

 

            “Mm-hmm,” Molly nodded, taking the chemistry set with her. “I’ll put this on the top shelf of the closet for now.”

 

            “I’m clearly a better uncle than you are a father,” Mycroft needled. “I didn’t purchase any caustic chemicals for the three year old.”

 

            Sherlock ignored him, walking toward the small, walled garden of the townhouse. Irene was there, hanging little paper lanterns shaped like stars from the canopy that protected several children’s outdoor toys from the sun and rain: a sandbox filled with buckets and scoops, a small slide that Arthur had almost outgrown, and a water table built in the shape of a pirate ship with several small figures and little water cannons for shooting at the smaller boats that floated on the surface. Arthur was playing with the pirate ship, splashing happily.

           

            He looked up as Sherlock walked out, immediately dropping his ship, and ran to his father. “Papa!”

 

            Sherlock caught him, lifting him up for a quick hug. “How are the seven seas, today, King Arthur?”

 

            The boy smiled with pure joy, an expression that was wholly his mother’s, though his eyes held Sherlock’s mischievous nature. “Excellent!” he declared, taking Sherlock’s hand and leading him back to the water table.

 

            Irene came over, placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “How was Scotland?”

 

            “A bore, really. It was meant to be an eight, but turned out to be a tedious six. John’s glad to be home, I know.”

 

            “And you?” Irene asked.

 

            “I bought the wrong present,” he confessed, watching Arthur select a ship and push it across the water to him.

 

            Irene smiled. “That doesn’t matter,” she gestured to him, then to their son. “This is what matters. Being here, playing with him on his birthday. Gifts get broken, or worn down with use, but memories don’t.”

 

            Arthur ran to Irene, pulling her to sit beside him. “You can be the merchant vessel we’re robbing, Mum,” he announced.

 

           “Oh, ho!” Irene teased. “You two witty boys think you’re a match for me?”

 

           Molly watched the three dark heads clustered around the pirate ship, splashing each other and shouting “Arr!”   It was a perfect moment. Irene and Sherlock and their son, playing and laughing, just being a family.

 

           There was movement behind her, and she knew it was Mycroft. Since John and Mary’s wedding six years ago, they had been polite to one another, and since Arthur’s birth, that politeness had transformed into a true peace. Mycroft adored Arthur, and made it a point to have lunch with him every week, bringing a box of Arthur’s favorite pastries.

 

           “Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft smiled. He never called her Molly.

 

           “Mycroft,” she smiled back. She had dropped the “Mr. Holmes” about a year ago. He didn’t seem to mind.

 

           “I would never have imagined a scene like this was possible,” he spoke softly. “I would never have thought Sherlock could be improved by these kinds of connections.”

 

            “And yet?” she prompted gently.

 

            “No need to fish for compliments, Dr. Hooper,” he responded dryly.

 

             They were silent, watching the three play from the doorway. After a moment, he added, “And yet, you have improved him. You, and The Woman, and Arthur. Sherlock is a better man for it. Even a better detective, I think.”

 

             Molly shook her head. “We don’t improve him, Mycroft. We _love_ him. And our love enables him to improve himself.”

 

            “What a mystery, you are, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft waved at Arthur, who had noticed his presence in the doorway and shouted, “Uncle!”

 

            “I’ve been summoned,” he murmured, then paused. “You’re the only person I’ve met who can turn sentiment into strength. I think you must be the most powerful of alchemists, doctor.”

 

                                                oOo0oOo

 

             “Again!” Arthur half-commanded, half-begged, sitting up in his bed. “Mummy, please?”

 

             Sherlock looked at Molly with a raised eyebrow, ready to give in, but Molly cut in. “No, Arthur. Your father has already read you the story three times, darling. It’s been a long day, and it’s an hour past your normal bedtime.”

 

             “Mum?” Arthur appealed to Irene, who was sitting on the other side of the bed.

 

             Irene leaned down and kissed his cheek. “No, my darling. You heard Mummy. She’s the boss.”

 

             “Papa?” Arthur wheedled in a such a way that it managed to be adorable instead of annoying.

 

             “Arthur,” Sherlock kissed his forehead, then stood. “You heard your Mum. She outranks me, sailor.”

 

            “Pirates don’t have ranks,” Arthur pouted sleepily. “They make their own rules.”

 

             Molly came over and stroked his hair, gently taking the book from his hands and laying it on the nightstand. “But even pirates have Mummies and Mums and Papas, and we all say it’s time for our littlest pirate captain to sail the seas of dreamland.”

 

             “Can I have the light?”

 

            “Of course, sweetheart.” Molly kissed his nose and turned on the small lamp by the door. “Good night, love.”

 

             “Good night, Mummy.”

 

             Molly pulled the door closed and sagged against the wood. It had been a very long day, indeed. She went down the hall to the bedroom. Irene was on the bed, leaning against Sherlock who looked half-dead.

 

            “So, first night back after a case, Sherlock,” Molly sighed as she kicked her shoes off under the bed. “Any plans?”

 

            “I had all sorts of plans for us,” Sherlock mumbled into Irene’s hair. “Then I played with ten three year olds for five hours. Plus Florence!  She's got Mary's stamina and John's stubbornness.   I think that’s worse than a week without sleep.”

 

            “Yes,” Molly grinned as she climbed into bed beside them. “There’s nothing like having a child to keep you from ever having sex again.”

 

            “How about a nice long cuddle?” Irene asked, taking Molly’s hand across Sherlock, pulling her close.

 

            “Cuddle? Are we three year olds as well?” Sherlock made a huffing sound that was suspiciously similar to a noise Arthur frequently made. 

 

            “Close enough, in your case,” Irene retorted. “Don’t forget who you said out-ranked you, witty boy.”

 

             Molly turned off the light, ignoring their gentle bickering. She squeezed against Sherlock, tightly grasping Irene’s hand. He would be here for the weekend, then head back to Baker Street for the workweek, as he always did. After Arthur’s birth, he had settled into a more regular schedule of visits. He came every weekend, as long as he wasn’t working a case higher than a seven. There were times when either Irene or Molly spent nights with him in Baker Street, and those were lovely, but Molly always treasured these moments the most – the three of them simply being.

 

            Lying there with her lovers, with their child sleeping peacefully down the hall, she felt her heart swell. Mycroft thought she had given so much to Sherlock, but she was only giving back what she had received. Irene and Sherlock had taught her as much about love and worthiness as she had shown them, and together, they had made Arthur, and he was redefining love for them all, even Mycroft, every day. He was the proof that love was like the universe, ever expanding, and Molly was in the center, the burning heart of their solar system. It had taken most of her life, but now that Molly knew how to shine, nothing could mute her brilliance.  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

           

           

 

 

           

 

 

 

           

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

           

           

 

           

 

           


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